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CUDDY 

OF THE WHITE TOPS 
EARL CHAPIN MAY 































• \ 







HE BEHELD HIS CIRCUS SPREAD OUT BEFORE HIM. 


[page io] 



CUDDY 

OF THE WHITE TOPS 


BY 

EARL CHAPIN MAY 



D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
NEW YORK : : 1924 : : LONDON 


C *tl Z 







COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 




Copyright, 1923, by The Curtis Publishing Company 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


M 19 *24 ‘ 

©C1A793686^ 



I 




TO 

THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER 

JOSIAH MONROE MAY 

WHO LOVED A CLEAN SHOW BE¬ 
CAUSE HE WAS A GOOD SHOWMAN 


, 


I 




CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Out of College. I 

II. A Circus Girl. 9 

III. The Circus Clem.22 

IV. Marion Gives Advice.33 

V. Among the Grifters.47 

VI. The Fixing of Frazier.56 

VII. A Blow-Off.66 

VIII. The Blow-Down . 86 

IX. The Blow-Up.91 

X. Out of the Mud.100 

XI. The Big Squeeze.113 

XII. Cuddy Sees Marjorie.136 

XIII. Manson and Marion.153 

XIV. Cuddy Clowns the Show .... 166 

XV. Two —and a Cottage. .191 

XVI. Cuddy Buys an Elephant .... 199 

XVII. A Bad Bull Lams.213 

XVIII. Cuddy Is Unmasked.233 

XIX. Marjorie Meets Marion.248 

XX. The Great Decision.263 

vii 


















CUDDY 

OF THE WHITE TOPS 


I 


OUT OF COLLEGE 



T THE end of a hard half hour in a stuffy New 


York office, Clarence Cuddington Cotter heard 


his guardian uncle pronounce this sentence: 

“As executor of your father’s estate I now present 
you, Cuddy, with a circus—nothing more.” 

Nathaniel Cotter, in his grimly legal way, straight¬ 
ened the pile of papers before him, and squinted at his 
nephew, just come into his majority. Cuddy stared 
across the pile of law books, his broad brows puckered 
over his clear blue eyes, his shining brown hair sadly 
rumpled, his well-manicured hands plucking at the table 
top. His Uncle Ned had rudely tumbled Cuddy’s house 
of cards, and Cuddy, senior in Columbus College, was 
rather dazed. 

“That’s all—that’s—left—for—me?” he asked. 

“That’s all, my boy. Now, what to do?” The lawyer 
studied Cuddy. 


I 


CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


The object of this scrutiny gazed fixedly at the ink- 
stained table. His chin rested on his chest, his shoulders 
sloped, his body slumped, he was lost in a roaring 
wilderness of thought. 

“All over with my college days,” the thought winds 
roared. “All over with Marjorie—my Marjorie with 
her olive skin, deep dark eyes, silky black hair, her 
softly curving neck, and the carriage of a queen. I’m 
down and out, buried by a circus! Who ever would 
have thought of that. A circus! None of my crowd 
must ever know. A circus! And all my very own! 
Of all the funny flops of fate. My own! And I’m just 
twenty-one. My own! A circus!” 

His full, good-natured mouth became a thin red line. 
His strong jaws tightened. His head came up. He 
breathed defiance at his Uncle Ned and at the wide, 
wide world. He banged his fists upon the table until 
the inkstands did a dance. 

“All right,” he snapped. “I’m game. Of course I 
can run a circus.” 

“Know anything about business?” his uncle asked. 

“Not much,” admitted Cuddy, his blue eyes steadily 
on his uncle. 

“Know anything about the circus business ?” 

“I’ve seen lots of them. Saw one at Columbus Col¬ 
lege just the other day.” 

“Think you can run one?” Uncle Ned tapped the 
table with speculative pencil, and watched the well-built 
boy before him. 

“Of course. Why not? Me and Bamum. Sure.” 

2 



OUT OF COLLEGE 


“Circus life is pretty rough, so I am told.” Uncle 
Ned spoke with judicial caution. “Circus people are, 
you know, rather—elemental.” 

“I know. I had a row with some last week. But 
that doesn’t scare me. I think it would be great to run 
my circus!” Cuddy chanted on. 

“What did you learn during your four years in col¬ 
lege?” Uncle Ned became the trial lawyer. He was 
familiar with Cuddy’s case. 

“Oh, quite a lot.” Cuddy smoothed his brown and 
shining hair. 

“And what did you learn during your three summers 
in Europe, between your—ah—hem—laborious college 
years?” 

“A lot.” Cuddy tucked a blue ’kerchief in his right 
cuff. 

“Do anything in athletics ? You’re big enough to do 
something.” 

“Teas, tennis and golf, mostly. I went in for 
dramatics, too.” 

“They should help you in the circus business.” Uncle 
Ned smiled sarcastically at his orphaned nephew. 

“I’m young and healthy and fairly bright,” was 
Cuddy’s indignant answer as he blew cigarette smoke 
toward the ceiling. 

Uncle Ned heard this statement without com¬ 
ment. 

“You’ll admit I must have some stuff in me,” Cuddy 
continued. “You bring me down from college just 
before my commencement, calmly announce that I am 
3 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


the only heir to a circus and nothing else, then ask me 
what I’m going to do about it. My answer is that I’m 
going to run it.” 

“I find no fault with your declaration,” said Uncle 
Ned. 

“I mean it.” Cuddy was combative. “But I’d like to 
know how my father, a banker, a churchman, could 
have sunk one hundred and fifty thousand dollars— 
all the family money—in a traveling circus. He never 
went near one.” 

“That’s the answer,” said Uncle Ned. “Calkins, the 
showman, talked your banker father into loaning him 
ten thousand dollars with Calkins’ Classical Circus, 
Mammoth Menagerie, Museum of Monstrosities, and 
Free Horse Fair as security. It was to be a fifty-fifty 
deal. Your father and Calkins were to share in a 
partnership profit. Before your father finished throw¬ 
ing good money after bad, he had invested one hundred 
and fifty thousand dollars in a circus for which he 
had a bill of sale he did not want. Your father died 
two years ago, leaving me as your guardian. You, as 
the only surviving heir, inherited the circus when you 
became twenty-one. It’s very simple. Sorry I could 
not have told you before.” 

“But was there no other property or money?” 

“That all went for your education, or whatever you 
want to call it.” The lawyer smiled grimly at the 
college senior. 

“So I’ve got to run this circus or hunt some other 
job?” 


4 




OUT OF COLLEGE 


“That’s about it, Cuddy. That seems to be your 
only prospect.” 

“Then me for the circus.” Cuddy squared his well- 
tailored shoulders. 

“Any money left from your allowance?” 

“About five hundred dollars in my college checking 
account.” He looked at his bright tan shoes. 

Uncle Ned felt just a little sorry for the half-baked 
chap. 

“Life’s been pretty soft for you, Cuddy.” 

“I guess so, sir.” He lighted a fresh cigarette. 

“But you’ve had lots of experience in life?” 

“Sure. College and Europe and all that.” 

“You’re about to have some real thrills, my boy/’ 
said testy Uncle Ned. He pushed a bundle of papers 
across the table. “There’s your bill of sale for the 
Calkins Circus, etc., and a route list showing where 
the circus is supposed to be from day to day, and a 
letter from me introducing you to Calkins. You’re 
on your own now. Good-by, and good luck.” Uncle 
and nephew shook hands. 

Cuddy tumbled into the jam of John Street and 
breathed deeply. 

“Gee! I hope Uncle Ned didn’t see how hard I hit 
the ground when he kicked the props from under me. 
Wonder why dear old dad didn’t give me some warning 
of what was coming? Left me sailing smoothly 
through college with all the money I wanted, then, 
bingo! I’m on the world. If I’d only known this when 
dad died two years ago.” 


5 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


He hailed a taxi and rolled up Broadway. 

“Thank my lucky stars dad didn’t leave me a sausage 
factory. Hope there are elephants with Calkins’ circus. 
Don’t so much mind quitting college, but it will hurt 
to say farewell to Marjorie.’’ His spirits sank at 
thought of Marjorie Dawson Trent, dark, statuesque, 
entrancing. His lovely college fiancee. 

Cuddy stepped into his Fortieth Street college club. 
There were fellows just running into town from col¬ 
lege, fellows just getting ready to run back to college. 
College trophies and pennants shared wall space with 
photographs of distinguished collegians who had be¬ 
come national presidents, bank presidents, railroad 
presidents, college presidents. The array was discour¬ 
aging to Cuddy. “I’ll never get in that bunch now— 
not even if I get to be president of a circus,” he re¬ 
flected rather bitterly. Then he tried to laugh at the 
ghastly joke, failed dismally, and, wandering into the 
writing room, wrote this valedictory: 

“Dearest, dearest Marjorie : 

“When I showed you the summons from Uncle Ned and 
we parted in our favorite nook overlooking the lake, I 
little thought I was really saying good-by to you and to 
college and to all the things which have made life so won¬ 
derful for me during the two years I’ve known you. But 
Uncle Ned gave me the kind of birthday party that only 
a lawyer could. When he got through with me I had 
nothing left in life but the necessity of hunting for a job 
and hunting it in a hurry. If I write a little jumbly it is 
because the blow really stunned me, a little. Fate is fate. 
I’ve always believed I could face any situation that faced 
6 




OUT OF COLLEGE 


me. But I never thought of a situation that would take 
you out of my life. Putting it briefly and brutally, Pm 
broke. That’s something that neither of us figured on. 
But, being broke, and not knowing when I shall be any¬ 
thing else, I can do nothing, in fairness to you, whom I 
love better than anything else in life, but release you from 
our engagement. Perhaps if I were merely broke I would 
not even do you that kindness. I would be tempted to 
ask you to wait for me, or something like that. But I’m 
quite a little more than broke. I’m sent upon a great 
adventure. I’m not afraid of it. Perhaps, in spite of the 
pain it brings me, I welcome it. Perhaps I welcome it 
because I must. Anyhow, it’s an adventure which I can¬ 
not tell you about. I’m sorry I must be so mysterious, 
but I must. If I come back from it, successfully, I am 
going to look for you. Until then I have no right to ask 
you to wait for me. And I can’t explain anything to you 
or to anybody else. I am asking the fellows in my fra¬ 
ternity to send my things home, and I’m asking Orton 
Burch to take you to the Spring Formal for me. I hope 
you will accept Orton as my substitute. I hope you will 
forgive me for merely writing to you when I should come 
back and tell you all about it. But I cannot do that. 
Some day you will understand. Until then and for all 
time to come, I love you, love you, love you. 

“Cuddy.” 

Cuddy gulped as he sealed the note and stepped into 
the street. He was passing his hand over his eyes when 
Slats Murphy slapped him jovially on the back with, 
“Hello, Cuddy; going back to Columbus with me to¬ 
night? About time to buck up for spring exams.” 

Cuddy kept his head down, searching for a stamp in 
his pocketbook. Just his luck to meet, of all persons, 
7 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


the hateful, frog-eyed, slab-sided Murphy of the ultra 
offensive Rho Epsilons. 

“Got to cut college for a day or so,” he said. “Got 
some business down south.” He dropped the note into 
a mail box. 

Slats laughed uproariously at that. He had a vicious 
laugh. 

“Business!” he shouted. “Business! You never 
had any business in your life. Business! Wait until 
I tell that story to the crowd at college. Ho, ho!” he 
roared. “I’ll tell it to Marjorie first.” 

“Nevertheless, I’ve got business now, plenty of it," 
Cuddy answered with dignity as he turned his back 
on his despised college rival, hailed a taxi and sped for 
a southbound train, leaving Murphy agape. 

Cuddy was off on his great adventure. 




II 


A CIRCUS GIRL 

A T NINE the next morning Cuddy reached 
r\ Roanoke, Virginia, checked his bag in the sta¬ 
tion, sauntered over to a train of yellow cars 
liberally lettered “Calkins' Circus," and addressed a 
soiled and weary workman. 

“Where will I find Mr. Calkins?" he asked. 

“Reckon you’ll find the Guv’ner on the lot," an¬ 
swered the razorback as he swung his pull-up team 
around and headed it for the loading runs at the end of 
the flat cars. 

“What’s the lot?" Cuddy asked. 

“The showgrounds.” 

“Where are they?" 

“About a half mile up toward town. Follow that 
menagerie wagon." 

Cuddy hit the dusty trail behind a cage of lions. 
One of them looked with friendly eye through the 
barred breathing hole in the rear wall of the cage. 
Cuddy, trudging in the dust, returned the friendly 
glance. 

“I’m your new boss, old-timer," he said to the king 
of beasts. 

The lion roared in response. “Sounds as if you re 

9 


CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


hungry,” said Cuddy cheerfully. He greeted with joy 
the cat animal odor. His ears saluted the unmistakable 
rumble of the rainbow-tinted wheels as they rolled on¬ 
to hard pavement. He caught up with the cage and 
turned back the canvas cover to feast his eyes on red 
paint and gold leaf thus revealed. “Mine! All mine!” 
thought Cuddy. A lash stung him on the back and a 
gruff voice from the driver’s seat growled: “Get the 
hell out of there!” 

Cuddy, from the vantage of the sidewalk, raised his 
voice to the wagon driver. 

“I’m owner of this show,” he announced. 

The driver spat carelessly and profusely. “Tell that 
to Guv’ner Calkins,” he answered with a grin. “And 
stay away from those cat animals. Want to get an 
arm clawed off ?” 

A moment later Cuddy forgot his injured feelings, 
for he topped a hill that overlooked the lot and beheld 
his circus spread out before him in all the glory of its 
daily setting-up. Troops of horses, companies of men, 
marched and countermarched over the fresh spring 
grass. Hustling circus youths were stripping canvas 
covers from the carved and bright-hued tableau 
wagons. Some one was tentatively touching the key¬ 
board of the ear-piercing calliope. Resplendent women 
and gallant men were emerging from the smaller tents 
and mounting richly caparisoned steeds, preparatory 
to the street parade. Circus employees were placing 
plumes on the heads of the dapple grays assigned to 
draw the gorgeous wagons. The creaking of pulleys 
io 




A CIRCUS GIRL 


could be heard on the hilltop as the great center poles 
of the main circus tent were hauled into upright posi¬ 
tion, a bright banner floating from the top of each. 

The showman’s Field of the Cloth of Gold was 
being prepared for the daily tournament with time, 
space, the elements and human nature. Cuddy’s eyes 
had never seen a more stirring picture. He hastened 
down the hill to take possession of his circus. 

“Gangway,” yelled two husky canvasmen as they 
shouldered an iron-tipped hickory quarter-pole and 
propelled it rapidly past Cuddy’s dodging head. The 
pole was six inches thick and twenty feet long. Cuddy 
estimated those dimensions as he stooped to pick up 
his hat. 

“Hi, there! Want to get stepped on by something 
heavy?” snapped an unshaved elephant trainer as he 
led his herd of hungry-looking “bulls” across the spot 
where Cuddy had just stood. Having leaped to safety 
with ballroom agility, Cuddy retreated to the rear of a 
red, muddy wagon bearing the legend: “No. 2. Blue 
Seats.” 

“Hi, Towner! Want to get your block knocked 
off?” 

Cuddy glanced over his shoulder just as a dozen blue 
seat-planks shot out of the wagon, soared over his 
head and slapped on the ground at his feet. Cuddy 
promptly moved again. He had seen circuses many 
times. But now he was alone on the lot at the hectic 
hour of setting-up. So, as he moved, he moved in for¬ 
eign fields. 


II 



CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“Don’t mix up them bale rings,” barked an uncouth 
hybrid as Cuddy stumbled among the hardware, ropes, 
and tent pins scattered around a wagon labeled “No. 
60. Stake and Chain.” Cuddy leaped awkwardly out 
of that tangle and almost under the feet of an eight- 
horse team swinging sharply around to “spot” a huge 
wagon filled with muddy canvas. Cuddy stumbled to 
one side, and collided with a slender, swarthy, hook¬ 
nosed individual who swore viciously. Cuddy paused 
to catch his breath. 

“Where can I find Mr. Calkins ?” he asked his in¬ 
hospitable host. 

The swarthy man pulled a toothpick from his mouth, 
lighted a cigar, blew a cloud of smoke through a black 
mustache, coolly studied Cuddy, spat and replied: 

“You mean the Guv’ner?” 

“I mean Mr. Calkins, manager of this show,” replied 
Cuddy. 

“That’s the same,” replied the swarthy man as he 
tipped his derby hat to the back of his head, put his 
hands in his trousers pockets, and looked along his 
ample vest front where hung a massive gold chain 
adorned with various fobs and pendants. 

“I want to see him,” explained Cuddy. 

“He’s not on the show to-day,” the swarthy man 
answered, again giving Cuddy a careful once-over. 

“I have a letter to him,” persisted Cuddy. 

“Tell you what you do,” said the swarthy man, after 
an instant’s hesitation. “You go over to that marquee 
12 




A CIRCUS GIRL 


there—that red tent that says ‘Main Entrance’ on it— 
and ask for Colonel Boone.” 

Cuddy followed directions. 

After being nearly brained by an octet of negroes, 
driving a tent stake into the resisting ground with 
many a “whuff” and grunt, Cuddy reached his objec¬ 
tive. 

A bald-headed man in shirt sleeves was counting 
pasteboard tickets behind a tall red box. 

“Is Colonel Boone here?” demanded Cuddy. The 
pangs of hunger due to unwonted exercise on a break¬ 
fastless morning made him more persistent in his quest. 

The bald-headed man finished counting his tickets. 

“Who did you say?” he finally asked. 

“Colonel Boone,” Cuddy repeated. 

“Not on the front door,” replied the bald-headed 
man and began to count more pasteboards. 

“Where will I find him?” demanded Cuddy. 

“Try the cookhouse,” answered the ticket counter. 

“Where’s the cookhouse?” Cuddy queried. 

The bald-headed man nodded casually toward the 
east. 

Cuddy sidestepped more gangs of sweating negroes 
who bore great bales of loosely rolled canvas from 
wagons to stake rows. He miraculously escaped the 
heels of horses driven in all directions and apparently 
without purpose. He almost trod on some burning 
mantles at the side of the wagon marked “Chandelier.” 
In time he found the cookhouse largely by following 
his nose. 


13 



CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


A man collecting meal tickets stopped him at the 
entrance. 

“I want to see Colonel Boone,” explained Cuddy, 
now feeling badly fagged and out of the picture. 

“He’ll be here in just a minute,” the door tender 
answered. “We got in this town late to-day. Got 
away from yesterday’s town late last night. Break¬ 
fast’s late. When Colonel Boone comes out, I’ll tell 
you.” 

“Where was the circus yesterday?” inquired Cuddy, 
by way of beguiling the time and forgetting his hunger. 

The cookhouse doorman gave him a quick appraise¬ 
ment. 

“Can’t say,” he replied. 

Cuddy pondered on this answer for a minute. Then 
a stocky, round-faced man came out carrying a mon¬ 
strous and highly inflamed cigar. 

“This gentleman wants to see you, Colonel,” said 
the doorman, indicating Cuddy. The Colonel stared 
at him. 

“Are you Colonel Boone?” inquired Cuddy after a 
protracted pause. 

“That’s what they call me,” responded the stocky 
individual from behind his cigar. 

“I am looking for Mr. Calkins,” explained Cuddy. 

“Who told you to ask for him?” demanded the 
stocky one. 

Cuddy described his first-found guide. 

“Guv’ner Calkins is not on the lot,” replied Colonel 
Boone. 


14 




A CIRCUS GIRL 


'‘But I have a very special message to him,” said 
Cuddy. 

“What’s your name?” demanded the Colonel. 

“Clarence Cuddington Cotter,” answered Cuddy. 

Colonel Boone searched his pockets, discovered a 
sheaf of folded telegrams, drew one out, read it care¬ 
fully, looked at Cuddy with great interest and said: 
“Are you from attorney Nathaniel Cotter of New 
York?” 

“I am,” said Cuddy. 

“Got anything to identify you?” 

“Here’s a letter introducing me to Mr. Calkins.” 

Colonel Boone read it. 

“Got any other papers ?” he continued. 

“I have,” Cuddy answered. 

“Let’s see ’em,” demanded the Colonel. 

“I have a bill of sale for this circus in my pocket,” 
said Cuddy stubbornly, tapping his breast significantly. 

* “That’s all right, son,” answered Colonel Boone 
warmly. “Come into the cookhouse and have break¬ 
fast. I’m Guv’ner Calkins.” 

While Cuddy sat on a blue seat-plank at a broad 
board table and ate his ham and eggs from granite- 
ware which slid readily about on oilcloth table covers, 
Guv’ner Calkins explained matters of moment. 

“You see, it’s this way, son. I’ve had a lot of hard 
luck since your dad began putting money into this show 
and I’m having mighty hard luck right now. The 
show business isn’t what it used to be, what with feed, 
lot and license costing more every day, the railroads 
15 



CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


charging twice what they used to and so many carnival 
companies copping the public’s money and making ’em 
sore at their grift and their girl shows. Why, right 
here in Virginia we have to pay state, county and city 
licenses every time we show. Other southern states 
are ’bout as bad. So I’ve been losing money ever since 
we opened at Mobile, March 3. I was a sucker to 
open so early and to figure on getting any spring money 
out of the cotton country, but I had to work north 
on some route. 

“Now the show’s about to blow up. I’ve moved it 
the last few days by letting certain officers of the law 
travel with us. They represent claims. You see two of 
them over at that table eating their heads, and mine, 
off. You didn’t bring any money with you, son?” 

“Not much,” admitted Cuddy. 

Guv’ner Calkins seemed disconcerted. 

“That’s bad,” he assured Cuddy. “Danville was a 
bloomer yesterday and business was just as rotten at 
Greensboro. Unless we get a good day here, you’re 
going to see a show blow up that cost your father 
one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, not countin’ 
interest, and that’s worth two hundred and fifty thou¬ 
sand dollars as she stands on the lot. It’s the best 
fifteen-car show in the business, that’s what it is.” 

A little rat-faced fellow rushed into the dining tent, 
and whispered in Calkins’ ear. From a near-by tent 
came sounds suggesting battle. 

“Got to go now. Somethin’ most important,” Cal¬ 
kins explained. “You’ll find me around the front door 
16 




A CIRCUS GIRL 


or in the ticket wagon. But don’t ask for me by name. 
Folks usually address me as ‘Colonel Boone.’ That’s 
a matter of precaution. You’ll soon see why.” He got 
to his feet, and paused while a slender girl glided into 
the cookhouse. She had golden hair and deep blue 
eyes. She seated herself opposite Cuddy. 

“Mr. Cotter, meet Miss Marion Fortescue, Queen 
of the Arena,” said Calkins, casually, and ducked under 
the sidewall nearest the noisy combat. 

“How do you do?” she inquired, softly. 

With mind on Marjorie Trent, Cuddy gazed at the 
new arrival. 

“When did you come on the show? When did you 
join out? I did not see you on the lot at the last 
stand.” Miss Fortescue was trying to make conver¬ 
sation. 

“I just arrived this morning, Miss Fortescue,” he 
answered. 

“You’re not a regular trouper,” she remarked, “not 
a professional.” 

“I’m afraid not. This is my first appearance in a 
circus dining room,” he admitted with dignity. “But 
how could you tell that?” 

“Any trouper can identify a towner—a non-profes¬ 
sional—without looking twice,” she announced. “You 
rarely see a showman wearing clothes like yours on a 
circus lot.” She smiled. 

Cuddy colored vividly. He had always prided him¬ 
self on being strictly in the mode. Now he feared a 
17 



CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


circus girl was laughing at him. The girl had remark¬ 
ably white teeth. 

“Please don’t be offended,” she hastened to say. 
“Plenty of us show people would like to dress in style, 
but that is rather difficult when we are packed into 
Pullmans two in a berth, two berths high every night 
and live under canvas or in the open every day, rain 
or shine.” 

Cuddy gave silent assent. Miss Fortescue toyed 
gracefully with her ham and eggs. She lightly lifted 
a huge coffee cup in one pink and pliant hand. 

“I wear gloves nearly all the time. That’s one of 
my vanities,” she explained. 

Cuddy again colored, at this unexpected answer to 
his unasked question. 

She pushed back her hair of Tuscan gold, thus bring¬ 
ing into view a fascinating forearm. 

“I’m the new owner/’ said Cuddy. 

“I beg your pardon,” said Miss Fortescue. 

“I’m the new owner of this show,” said Cuddy, a 
little louder. 

Miss Fortescue was incredulous, then sympathetic. 
Cuddy felt the need of sympathy just then. He hast¬ 
ily sketched his story and exhibited his bill of sale. 
Then he tucked the bill back in his inside coat pocket. 
She was really a very nice girl. She seemed quite 
agitated at Cuddy’s revelation. She mopped her dewy 
face and throat with a frankly cotton handkerchief. 
Her porcelain pink complexion remained unchanged. 
“It is her own!” marveled Cuddy. 

18 




A CIRCUS GIRL 


“And what do you do with the show?” Cuddy asked 
her. 

“About what the usual performer does on the usual 
small show,” she answered. “Of course I’m not a 
‘Queen of the Arena/ That’s Guv’ner Calkins’ idea 
of humor. And he thinks a title may turn away wrath. 
He owes me and other performers in the dressing room 
four weeks’ salaries. He would owe less if he kept his 
show clean—kept the grifters away.” 

“But what do you do with the show?” insisted 
Cuddy. 

“Well, not so very much when you come to think 
of it,” she confessed. “I usually finish breakfast at 
nine o’clock if the cookhouse is up on time. We’re 
late to-day. Then I dress for parade and ride that, 
with a team of tandem whites, until about eleven, de¬ 
pending on how long the parade route is. Then I get 
my ring costumes out of the trunk. Yes,” she antici¬ 
pated his question, “I only have one trunk, regulation 
size, 24 by 18 by 18 inches, you know. That’s all each 
performer is allowed to carry. Then I have dinner 
and go back to the dressing room and do some wash¬ 
ing and mending if the sun’s out. At 2:15 I ride 
entry—the ‘walk-around’ the hippodrome track. Dur¬ 
ing the afternoon show I do a wire act, a butterfly act, 
a high school act, work the bulls—elephants, you know 
—and act as somersault flier in the return act. Then 
I have supper, finish my mending, go through the night 
show and hunt for the car and berth in the railroad 
yards. That’s all.” 


19 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“Rather a hard life,” said Cuddy. 

“Not very,” replied Miss Fortescue, folding her 
paper napkin. “Much easier than being a stenog¬ 
rapher or school teacher, for instance.” 

The noise from the neighboring tent increased. 

“What’s all that row Mr. Calkins is attending?” 
Cuddy asked her. 

“Oh, that’s just a clem,” she said. “We have lots 
of them.” 

“What’s a clem?” 

“A rough house. Usually between show folks and 
towners. Better stay away from them,” warned the 
circus girl. 

“How long have you been traveling with a circus?” 
Cuddy resumed. 

“I’ve been in the profession, let’s see, yes, this is 
my tenth season.” 

“But you don’t travel all the year long?” 

“Lord, no!” she exclaimed. “This show generally 
opens the season in Florida or Alabama about the mid¬ 
dle of March and closes in Texas or Louisiana early 
in December. That’s a long circus season, about thirty- 
four weeks. Most shows only run—stay out—about 
twenty-five weeks. It’s the long season that keeps so 
many of us on this show in spite of the rotten grift 
the Guv’ner carries.” 

“What do you do when the show isn’t running? I 
mean, when it isn’t staying out?” asked Cuddy, offer¬ 
ing a cigarette which the girl declined. 

“Oh, I usually live at winter quarters and break in 
20 




A CIRCUS GIRL 


new animal acts. This is my first season working the 
bulls. I helped break in a new cat animal act last 
winter, but haven’t worked them under canvas, yet. 
Excuse me, there’s the last bugle for the parade.’’ 

Miss Fortescue prepared to take her leave. It is no 
easy thing to swing around on a narrow blue plank, 
lift one’s feet and legs over the same, touch terra firma 
and move off in complete grace and a gingham gown. 
Miss Fortescue did it, easily and without self-con¬ 
sciousness. She waved one hand in adieu and dis¬ 
appeared through the cookhouse door. 

Shifting his seat Cuddy watched her deftly pick her 
dainty way across the tangled circus lot—until she met 
a sizable man in cavalier costume. Hand in hand girl 
and cavalier mingled with the maze of horses, per¬ 
formers, elephants and tableau wagons preparing for 
the morning street parade. 

Cuddy stepped into the sunshine, halted a canvas- 
man, indicated the disappearing couple and asked: 
“Who is the big fellow?” 

“That’s Mr. Manson, the equestrian director. He 
runs the performance.” The canvasman bent his steps 
toward the stake and chain wagon, adding, “Big fel¬ 
low’s right. Better not get in wrong with him.” 

“Evidently Manson is a person of some importance,” 
commented Cuddy as he went in search of Calkins. 
That gentleman was discovered counting popcorn 
bricks in a candy stand, as calmly as if he had not 
recently stilled a tumult. 


21 



Ill 

THE CIRCUS CLEM 


[, my young friend,” exclaimed the circus man¬ 



ager, “I was just this moment thinking of 


you. We will continue our confidential talk.” 
He beamed on Cuddy. Then he proceeded to furnish 
the talk while Cuddy furnished the confidence. 

“I reckon you’re the owner of this show,” Calkins 
began with great exhibition of good will. “Your 
uncle wired me you were coming. Said he had turned 
the bill of sale over to you. I admit the legality of 
that bill. I made it out myself and your uncle saw 
that I made it out proper. Pretty soon Fll take you 
around the lot and introduce you to the company as 
the new owner. 

“And I want to give you two friendly tips. If you 
haven’t got a bank roll to put back of this show, don’t 
tip it off to any one. And don’t interfere with the 
grift. I thought you would come here with at least 
ten thousand dollars. I tipped it off to some of the 
troupe that you would. See? Well. You gotta make 
good on the bluff. And we, this show, has got to get 
enough money to move. If we don’t get it through 


22 


THE CIRCUS CLEM 


the ticket wagon and on the seats, we get it some other 
way. Savvy?” 

“What do you call 'the grift’ ?” asked Cuddy. 

“Very simple,” said Calkins. “It costs about two 
thousand seven hundred dollars a day to run this show. 
That’s called 'the nut.’ You might get two sell-outs 
in one day, work off ‘the nut’ and roll out of that 
town with three thousand five hundred dollars’ clear 
profit. Then you might run into four days of rain and 
not take in more than seven hundred dollars a day. In 
those four days you lose two thousand dollars a day or 
eight thousand dollars in four days. Counting your 
one big sell-out day, you’re still four thousand five 
hundred dollars in the hole. Get me? For one day 
where you work off the nut and have some good jack 
to take out of your ticket wagon and put into bank 
drafts to send back home you run into four days 
where you have to pay out two thousand dollars more 
each day than you take in. And the insurance com¬ 
pany’s weather policy on a circus comes too high when 
a show travels twelve to fourteen thousand miles in a 
season and sets up in a new town each day. I got to 
carry the grift, or graft as the towners call it, to help 
pay expenses.” 

“Sol Goldman has charge of the grift on this show. 
Come into the ticket wagon where he can explain the 
whole thing to you.” 

Mr. Goldman proved to be the swarthy man of the 
early morning. He was all affability upon their sec¬ 
ond meeting. 


^3 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“Aw, Meester Cotter, I am so delighted to have met 
you!” he exclaimed, as they entered the tiny business 
office in the rear of the ticket wagon opposite the 
ticket seller’s window. “You did not tell me you were 
the great Meester Cotter when we have met this morn¬ 
ing. Then it would have been my great pleasure to 
have introduce you to the Guv’ner. But we of this 
profession must be careful.”." He leered at Calkins. 
“We have many enemies. The officers are always 
trying to, as you say, shake us down. It is hard for a 
gentleman to make a living these days. We must use 
great skill in our games of chance.” 

Cuddy glanced at a young fellow near the ticket 
window. 

“Oh, don’t mind him,” remarked Calkins. “That’s 
‘Rony’ Gavin, our treasurer. He knows everything. 
Meet Mr. Gavin, Mr. Cotter.” 

Cuddy and Rony shook hands. Cuddy liked Rony’s 

grip- 

“You see, it’s this way/’ Calkins went on, as he drew 
the trio close together. “Sol Goldman, here, has eleven 
grifters with him. They work games and also short 
change the rubes or simps. On a fair day the grift 
takes in two thousand dollars. I deduct the money I 
pay out for fixing, then me and Goldman divide the 
net. He pays his grifters. I pocket my half.” Calkins 
tapped Cuddy’s knee with a stubby forefinger. 

Cuddy nodded foggily. He half rose as he heard 
the distant circus band on parade. The small boy 
24 




THE CIRCUS CLEM 


struggled with the business man—then the business 
man sat down. 

“The nine hundred dollars or so a day I get from 
the grift keeps the show going. Especially when bus¬ 
iness is bad. The towners are looking for the grift— 
and we give it to ’em. Do you get me?” concluded 
Calkins. 

“I get you,” responded Cuddy with disgust. “But 
supposing some of the e-er towners who lose their 
money to Mr. Goldman or his assistants should com¬ 
plain to the authorities?” 

“In that case,” replied Goldman, “the authorities 
do not hear them. Or we compromise by throwing 
back some of the squawkers’ losses or we run the 
squawkers off the lot.” 

“And if they do not run readily?” suggested Cuddy. 

“There is always the handy tent stake,” was Mr. 
Goldman’s answer. 

Cuddy permitted himself a slight shudder. 

“Do all circuses carry these e-e-er games of chance?” 
he asked with an attempt at sarcasm. 

“Not all of ’em,” Calkins admitted. “But it’s part 
of our business. Of course, before the grifters work 
we always have the authorities fixed. Fatty Frazier 
fixes for us.” 

“And now, my dear friend, Meester Cotter,” con¬ 
cluded Goldman, laying one paw lightly on young 
Cuddy’s arm, “you will see that me and my associates 
are quite an important part of the circus. You, as the 
new owner, will not, however, have to bother about 
25 



CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


us. We do not work unless all matters have been 
arranged with the authorities. There will be no 
trouble, I can assure you.” 

The thin, swarthy Goldman and the fat, rubicund 
Calkins climbed through the door of the ticket wagon 
and left the new circus proprietor to his thoughts. 

“That simp will give no trouble,” said Calkins to 
Goldman. 

“Has he got any jack?” said Goldman to Calkins. 

“Fm afraid not,” Calkins admitted. 

“Then run him off the show,” the grifter urged. 

“How about his bill of sale for the show?” Calkins 
remonstrated* 

“Get that before he starts to run,” Goldman mut¬ 
tered. 

“You handle that part of it,” said Calkins. 

The negro side show band burst into a blare of 
brasses. Old Doc Inman began his bally-hoo in front 
of the gaudy banners. The “towners” who had fol¬ 
lowed the parade to the lot began to buy tickets at 
twenty-five cents each and to enter the Museum of 
Monstrosities. 

Inside the covered ticket wagon young Cuddy sat 
absorbed in thought. “It’s up to you,” he kept hear¬ 
ing his uncle say. He wondered whether Uncle Ned 
knew as much about the Calkins circus as he had 
learned in four well-filled hours. He wondered, too, 
if Uncle Ned or any of the showmen he had met that 
day knew how little he knew about the world of busi¬ 
ness in general and about the circus business in par- 
26 




THE CIRCUS CLEM 


ticular. Then he raised his head to find Rony Gavin, 
circus treasurer and ticket seller, looking at him quiz¬ 
zically. 

“Rony,” said Cuddy, “you heard this three-way 
conversation just now. You know everything about 
the financial end of this circus business, don’t you?” 

“I should say I do,” replied Rony. “I’ve been in a 
circus ticket wagon six seasons now. I handle all the 
money and pay all the bills.” 

“Do you handle the grift money, too?” 

“The show’s part of it, after Guv’ner Calkins turns 
it over to me.” 

“If it’s a fair question, Rony, what salary do you 
get?” 

“I don’t get any. I get half the walk-a-way.” 

“What’s the walk-away, Rony?” 

“The change the ticket buyers don’t take with them,” 
answered Rony. 

“Pretty good job, Rony?” 

“I own a quarter-section farm in central Kansas,” 
answered the cheerful treasurer. 

“Think the walk-away idea is all right, Rony?” 

“The towners seldom miss it. If they do and make 
a squawk, I give it back,” said Rony. 

Cuddy went out in the open to do some more think¬ 
ing. He thought during the dinner hour while, in 
Calkins’ company, he ate his noon-day soup, steak, 
potatoes, white bread, canned corn, apple pie and 
coffee. 


27 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“How many in this dining tent?” Cuddy queried 
to Calkins. 

“We feed about two hundred on the lot,” the show¬ 
man said. 

“All eat the same ?” 

“From rough-neck to manager, we all get the same 
cookhouse grub,” Calkins assured him. “That’s one 
of the things that keeps this show together.” 

“Any of Goldman’s grifters in the dining tent?’* 

“They sleep on the train, but they never eat on the 
lot. They stay clear away from the show unless they’re 
working. They’re not supposed to be with it.” 

“If they come around to-day I’d like to look them 
over,” suggested the fledgling circus proprietor. 

“Glad to point them out to you,” mumbled Calkins, 
his mouth full of meat. “Looks like we might get 
some easy money in this burg.” 

“How can the grifters work wtih sheriffs and police 
from other towns traveling with us?” ventured Cuddy. 

“We fix them the same as we do the local officials,” 
Calkins answered. Then he added: “You’ll learn a 
heap more on the road than you ever learned in college. 
It’ll be what you might call a liberal education. You’re 
getting kind of wise already, eh, son? About that 
money of yours, now. How much financing can you 
do for the show?” 

“Can’t say just yet,” answered truthful Cuddy, 
fidgeting a bit. 

“We got to get some jack some way,” urged Cal¬ 
kins. “The show’s thirty thousand dollars behind on 
28 




THE CIRCUS CLEM 


the season. You know that bill of sale in your pocket 
gives me an annual salary as manager of twenty-five 
thousand dollars. That isn’t much for a showman of 
my size. Your father and I agreed on that. But if 
the show don’t make it, I don’t get it. The show’d 
get more jack if I could make the grift stronger.” 
Calkins decided upon a change of subject. ‘Til talk 
to you about that later. Want to see the circus per¬ 
formance?” 

Cuddy quickly assented, and they hastened into the 
circus tents. 

Then came the fanfare of trumpets, the opening 
pageant, the whirl and maze and miracle of the first 
circus performance Cuddy had seen with the eyes of a 
circus owner. 

There was Marion Fortescue on the milk-white tan¬ 
dem team, as a butterfly near the top of the tent, as a 
ballet dancer upon the tight wire, or whipping huge 
elephants into humble submission, and Marion For¬ 
tescue somersaulting through the air from trapeze to 
trapeze. Of course, Cuddy knew there were other 
performers present, but he failed to center his attention 
upon them. A boy of twenty-one suddenly come into 
a kingdom called the circus may be forgiven for being 
dazed by accession to such a throne, especially when 
the Queen of the Arena salutes him. 

Cuddy would have remained in his happy state had 
he refrained from wandering into the side show after 
the main performance was concluded. He recalled 
afterward that Bings Balter, circus press agent, tried 
29 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


to keep him out of there, but Cuddy was intent upon 
seeing all of his show. So, with Bings in charge, he 
walked into the Museum of Monstrosities. He was 
just in time to see a local farmer wager ten dollars on 
the turn of a wheel of fortune and to see the operator 
rob the farmer by stopping the wheel at a losing num¬ 
ber. The robbery was so raw that even Cuddy detected 
the fraud. In a moment the interior of the tent was in 
turmoil. The farmer and his friends promptly en¬ 
gaged the grifter and his gang in bloody battle. Cuddy 
dived into the melee shouting: “I won’t have this in 
my show.” He had a fleeting glimpse of Goldman’s 
dark and evil face. Then what felt like a ten-ton trip¬ 
hammer descended upon Cuddy’s head and he passed 
out. 

When Cuddy slowly opened his eyes, they met the 
eyes of Miss Marion Fortescue. His first sensations 
were of pain and peace. With pliant hands she bathed 
his battered head. Her cool fingers caressed his twitch¬ 
ing eyes. 

“W-w-w-h-h-ere a-am I ?” he faltered. 

“You’re back of the dressing room and safe for 
a while,” replied the Queen of the Arena. 

“W-w-hat h-h-happened ?” 

“You were hurt in a clem,” explained Miss For¬ 
tescue. “I told you to stay away from the clems.” 

“Do all shows have clems?” he groaned. 

“Not the clean shows, just the grifting ones.” 

“Can this be made a clean show ?” 

“With the right man at the head of it. ,> 

30 




THE CIRCUS CLEM 


“Can I clean this show up?” 

“If you have stuff in you.” 

“I’m the owner of this show, you know,” suggested 
Cuddy. 

“Sure of that?” 

“Look in my inside coat pocket,” Cuddy tried vainly 
to raise his hands. 

Miss Marion Fortescue’s fingers searched the cor¬ 
ners of the pocket. The pocket lay just over Cuddy’s 
heart. 

“There’s nothing there,” she announced. 

“Then my bill of sale is gone!” groaned Cuddy, 
trying to rise. 

Miss Fortescue did not answer his question. What 
she said was: 

“A nice boy like you has no business traveling with 
a circus. If you’ll take my advice you’ll hurry off this 
lot as soon as you can walk and go right back home 
where you belong.” 

Cuddy gazed at her steadily for a long time. She 
gazed just as steadily at him. 

“I’ll stick by this show if it kills me,” he muttered 
as he slipped off into a troubled sleep. 

Montrose Manson found her still soothing Cuddy’s 
battered head with her capable hands. 

“Put this kid on the cars, will you, Manson?” she 
asked. 

“Like blazes I will,” he snarled at her. “What’s the 
big idea, Marion? Why nurse the simp? Haven’t I 
told you, time and again, to leave all simps alone. I 
3i 



CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


might stand for your honeyin’ up with some of these 
troupers on the show—but a simp! I should say not. 
Ain’t he the same kid the grifters sapped in that clem 
just now?’* 

She nodded. 

“I thought so. Say, what the devil you doing, 
nursing him for?” 

“I’ve got good reasons—business reasons—honest I 
have, Manson. Won’t you help me out and put the 
kid on the train?” 

“That’s about enough of that. You know I know 
what’s good for you, and you know I told you long 
ago to have no truck with towners. Now that goes, 
right now and for all time. You leave that simp on 
the lot,” Manson warned her as he stamped off toward 
the stables. 

Marion searched for and found Jules Turner, the 
veteran clown. Jules was rehearsing his new trained 
pig act. She led him to the unconscious Cuddy. 

“Please, Jules, put this kid on the train and say 
nothing. Just put him in Calkins’ stateroom and say 
nothing. It’ll be all right. I’ve never lied to you yet. 
I tell you it’ll be all right, with Guv’ner Calkins and 
everybody. I’ll fix it with the Guv’ner. Will you, 
Jules?” she pleaded. 

Jules, old as he was, swung Cuddy’s limp body over 
his Harlequin shoulder and staggered to the circus 
train. 


32 





IV 

MARION GIVES ADVICE 


F ATTY FRAZIER, official fixer for Calkins' 
Circus, awakened Cuddy in the morning. Cuddy 
resented this. He was sick, and tired in body 
and soul. Less than twenty-four hours before, he had 
been a respectable young man fresh from college. Now 
he felt smeared all over with the slime of a tough 
circus crew. His body ached from the beating given 
it the previous day at Roanoke. 

“I'm supposed to take charge of you to-day, Mr. 
Cotter.” This was Frazier’s morning message. Cuddy 
received it without acclaim. He knew that Frazier, 
as the circus fixer, made the grifting games possible. 
Cuddy was fed up on the show business already. He 
had no chance with the pirates who surrounded him. 
Better kiss good-by to the one hundred and fifty thou¬ 
sand dollars his late father had sunk in this circus enter¬ 
prise. Somewhere in the world there was a better job 
in life than fighting for possession of a circus he didn't 
want—a dirty, thieving circus. He wasn't a quitter 
but— 

“Good morning, Mr. Cotter.” Miss Marion For- 
tescue had descended the steps of the women's Pullman 
33 


CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


as Cuddy and Frazier came out of the adjoining privi¬ 
lege car. 

“Is it? I can’t see it.” Cuddy was still sore in soul 
and body. 

“I think it’s a glorious morning,” she answered. 
“Every time I wake up in a new town on a spring day 
like this, with fresh green smells in the air and the 
birds hitting it up better than Ganwell’s band—well, 
I bless God that He made me a circus trouper.” 

Cuddy turned to the fixer. 

“Excuse me, Frazier. Miss Fortescue and I will 
walk to the lot together. I’ll meet you there, in the 
cookhouse, at breakfast.” 

“Guv’ner Calkins’ orders are to take charge of you 
to-day,” said Frazier. 

“I’m the Governor on this show now,” Cuddy an¬ 
swered stiffly. 

Frazier, being a professional fixer, was a diplomat. 

“All right, Guv’ner. The lot’s one block down the 
tracks, then six blocks to the right, and three blocks 
to the left. The last wagons off the train are just 
going over. Follow them.” He dropped behind. 
Marion and Cuddy started for the lot. Her eyes were 
heavenly blue, her hair a Tuscan gold. She was as 
fresh as a peony. They trod a flowery path through 
the sleeping village of Dawsville. Cuddy was feeling 
better. What was it about her that reminded him of 
Marjorie, his college sweetheart? Perhaps her poise, 
her naturalness. 


34 




MARION GIVES ADVICE 


“You have a dandy habit of turning up when I 
most need you/’ he said. 

“You mean yesterday afternoon, after the clem?” 

“I mean yesterday afternoon and I mean to-day. 
I was just about ready to quit when I came out of the 
car a minute ago.” 

“And now?” she plucked a four-petaled flower from 
a dogwood which drooped to greet her. 

“I’m repeating what I told you when you nursed 
my bruised head yesterday. I’ll stick to this show if 
it kills me,” he said. 

“I hate a quitter.” 

“So do I. That’s why I sha’n’t be one. Although 
I don’t know how I’m going to stick. Tell me, who 
put me on the show train last night? Why didn’t they 
leave me on the lot?” 

“I guess Guv’ner Calkins and Goldman,” said Miss 
Fortescue, “decided they better keep you on the show 
until you could run away on your own legs, peaceably, 
or until you produced some money. Calkins and Gold¬ 
man and his outfit have enough against them now with¬ 
out a possible case of murder.” 

“You think they deliberately tried to kill me?” 

“No. The rough-neck who hit you with the tent 
stake overdid it. They just wanted to hurt you bad 
enough so you would like college better than the circus. 
Unless you have some money, they don’t see how they 
can use you.” 

Cuddy stopped at a flowering honeysuckle bush. 

“I wonder if these things do have honey in them,” 

35 





CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


he said. “Won’t you join me in a bit of ambrosia?” 
He plucked two blossoms and gave her one. 

Laughingly the circus girl held to her lips the tiny 
flower and sipped its drop of honey. Cuddy, draining 
his fragrant chalice, silently toasted Marjorie Trent. 
Sweet-smelling white locusts arched above them. 

“Who stole my bill of sale for this show? It was 
in my pocket before I was stunned yesterday,” he 
resumed. 

“I can’t say,” she answered. 

Cuddy looked at her sharply, at her clear, pink com¬ 
plexion, exquisite profile, full red lips. She was not 
at all like Marjorie Dawson Trent. She was light, 
Marjorie dark. She was small, Marjorie tall. Mar¬ 
jorie was— 

Miss Fortescue indicated by a slight motion of her 
hand that she chose to have him raise and carry her 
blue parasol. Cuddy hastened to render this trifling 
service. 

“You said something yesterday about cleaning up 
this show, Miss Fortescue. How shall I begin?” 

“By getting rid of Frazier. The grifters can’t grift 
unless he fixes the town. That’s what caused some of 
the trouble yesterday.” 

“But I have nothing to prove that I own this show, 
unless I produce my missing bill of sale.” 

“Have you any lawyer friends?” 

“My Uncle Ned in New York.” 

“What’s the full name and address?” 

Cuddy recited it to her. 

36 




MARION GIVES ADVICE 


“Does Guv’ner Calkins know that?” 

“Yes. He and Uncle Ned know each other.” 

They had reached the lot. 

“Then don’t let Calkins bluff you. Here comes 
Frazier to take you in charge. Good-by. The cook¬ 
house steward has sent me to another table.’’ 

Cuddy surrendered Marion’s parasol with reluct¬ 
ance. It was, indeed, a glorious spring morning. The 
kind of a morning to make a fight worth while. 

Although Cuddy breakfasted between Calkins and 
Frazier with Goldman on the other side of the oilcloth- 
covered table, his appetite staged a surprising come¬ 
back. His headache was gone. The orderly haste with 
which the show was setting up appealed to him. He 
hated the grifters around him, but he felt a first young 
love for—he guessed some of his early ancestors must 
have been showmen. Probably that was it. 

“Let’s go, Mr. Cotter.” It was Fatty Frazier. 
Always the diplomat, he addressed Cuddy as “Mr.” 
and not as “Guv’ner,” in Guv’ner Calkins’ presence. 
One never could tell who might be boss of the show 
on the morrow, but Frazier was still taking orders 
from Calkins. “Let’s go,” he repeated. “I have busi¬ 
ness downtown.” Cuddy followed Frazier from the 
cookhouse. 

“You’ll have a different idea about grift with a circus 
after you’ve been around with me,” Frazier assured 
him as they reached the village square. “We’ll see the 
chief of police first.” 

They found and entered the city hall. 

37 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“Good morning, Chief,” said the circus fixer as they 
were ushered into the presence of the head of the 
municipal police force. “I’m Frazier, officer with Cal¬ 
kins’ Circus. Just dropped in to pay my respects to a 
brother officer. This is Mr. Cotter, also with the cir¬ 
cus. How’s everything?” 

The chief and Frazier grasped hands as brother 
officers should. The chief bowed with dignity to 
Cuddy who replied in kind. Then Frazier got down 
to business. 

“Chief,” he said, “you’ve had a lot of experience in 
police work. I’ve heard about you for months. Been 
looking forward to meeting you ever since we came 
into this territory. Got a letter of introduction to you 
from the chief of Keensville.” He submitted it to 
their host who read it perfunctorily. 

“Chief,” Frazier went on, “you know how this cir¬ 
cus business is. We’ve got a Sunday school show, if 
you want it. Or we can put on a few little games of 
chance, if you want them. In other words, we carry 
a Jack-in-the-Box. We can keep him in, or we can let 
him out, just as you say.” 

The chief of police lighted the generous cigar which 
Frazier gave him. “What kind of games?” he asked. 

“Well, Chief, just about the kind the young fellows 
around here like to play, I guess. A little wheel of 
fortune, some roll-downs, pick-outs and all that. All 
perfectly legitimate. Made for sporting gentlemen. 
All on the square, you know.” 

“We had a lot of trouble with the last circus that 

38 




MARION GIVES ADVICE 


was here,” the chief objected. “Lot of our people lost 
money to the circus gamblers. Kicked up a muss with 
my department.” 

“Nothing like that on our show, Chief,” Frazier 
assured him. “I’ll guarantee you don’t hear any 
squawk from our lot. We just have some nice clean 
games.” 

“Well, I like a little poker, et cetera, myself,” the 
chief of police was mellowing. “If there won’t be any 
trouble—” 

“Positively not, Chief,” the fixer hastened to say. 
“Unless some of our workmen might quit without 
giving us the proper two weeks' notice. If they do, 
or any one else comes to you about the show, just you 
send them to me. I’ll take care of them. And for 
your trouble, Chief, if there is any, just a little present 
from me.” 

Frazier laid upon the chief’s desk a crisp, yellow- 
backed twenty-dollar bill, and twenty tickets to the 
show. The chief absent-mindedly slipped them into 
his pocket. 

“All right,” he said. 

“Come out and see us, Chief,” urged the fixer, as 
he and Cuddy withdrew from the official presence. 

“Did you see him take it?” Frazier chuckled, as they 
reached the street. 

Cuddy nodded gloomily. “Rotten crook, Frazier,” 
he thought. 

“They all will,” Frazier asserted. “Now for the 
sheriff’s office.” 


39 





CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


Frazier was even more cordial with the sheriff, to 
whom he called “Glad to meet you.” He had a grape¬ 
vine report on the sheriff. One line of the report said: 
“Give this bird the quick glad-hand. He’s all right.” 

“I’m Frazier. Officer with Calkins’ Circus. Just 
dropped in to pay my respects.” Cuddy noted that 
Frazier’s formula remained unchanged. “How they 
treating you, Sheriff?” 

“Oh, so so,” replied the sheriff. 

“Want you to come out and see us, Sheriff. Got a 
nice, clean little show, no grift.” 

The sheriff yawned and stretched his arms. 

“Of course, we can put on a few little games of 
chance, Sheriff.” 

The sheriff abruptly terminated his yawn. “What’s 
that?” he snapped. 

“Well, I mean that some of the boys with the show 
got a little red blood in them, and don’t mind taking a 
chance with some of your sporting men if it’s all right 
and regular, you know.” Thus spoke Frazier. 

“Gambling’s illegal in this county,” said the sheriff 
shortly. 

“Oh, of course,” Frazier assented. “I don’t mean 
regular gambling. That wouldn’t do for either of us. 
Just some little wheels, you know, and things like that.” 
Frazier reclined casually upon the sheriff’s desk. “We 
have,” he said, “about the same philosophy of life, 
Sheriff, you and I. If you go out of this office at the 
end of your term well heeled your people will say you’re 
a smart man. If you go out broke, you’d have a hard 
40 




MARION GIVES ADVICE 


time borrowing a ten-dollar bill from any of the re¬ 
formers. Nothing succeeds like success. Now you’ll 
have no trouble on account of us. But there’s one 
thing I’d like to get your office to do for me. I’d like 
to have you send four of your men out to our show, 
just to watch the autos. Our people don’t steal lap- 
robes, but your own people do. One farmer steals 
from the other. There were nine million dollars’ worth 
of automobile robes stolen in this country last year. Of 
course, the minute a farmer misses his robe he blames 
it on the show people. We’re always blamed for every¬ 
thing. So if you’ll have two men watch those autos 
around the circus lot in the afternoon, while your other 
two men see the show, then let them change places at 
night—well, I’ll be very glad to pay them for their 
trouble. And if you should want me at any time, just 
ask for Frazier. I’ll be on the lot.” 

Frazier and Cuddy moved toward the door. On 
the sheriff’s desk reposed a nice, crisp, yellow-backed 
twenty-dollar bill and a dozen circus tickets. As 
Frazier and Cuddy backed through the door, bill and 
tickets mysteriously disappeared. The sheriff smiled 
blandly. So did Frazier. 

“Never taught you that in college,” remarked 
Frazier triumphantly to Cuddy. 

“Think I shall suggest it for our extension course 
in sociology,” said Cuddy glumly. 

“Now we’ll see the district attorney and then all’ll 
be set,” chuckled the legal adjuster of Calkins’ Circus. 
4i 





CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


That was the title Frazier gave himself when he greeted 
the district attorney. 

“But of course I can’t practice law in this county, 
even if I wanted to,” Frazier explained to the district 
attorney. “We’re not carrying any surety bond, and 
sometimes, just as our train is ready to pull out for 
the next town, some disgruntled employee, through 
some crooked lawyer, gets out an attachment against 
us. Then if there isn’t some one to act for us quick 
we may get stalled. So we retain a lawyer to represent 
us in each town. Now you, Mr. District Attorney, 
are one of the big legal lights of this country or you 
wouldn’t hold your high office. I don’t believe we 
shall have any need for an attorney to-day, but so long 
as my instructions as legal adjuster are to retain some 
local attorney for the circus, I don’t see why you might 
not have the money as well as any one else. And so, 
if you don’t object—” 

Frazier completed a maneuver now familiar to 
Cuddy. He moved away from the district attorney’s 
desk. There remained on the desk in plain sight a 
crisp, yellow-backed, twenty-dollar bill and twenty cir¬ 
cus tickets. 

“You don’t have any gambling games with your 
circus, Mr. Frazier?” 

“Not one,” replied Mr. Frazier in perfect truth. 
He knew that the games with Calkins’ Circus were of 
the sure-fire variety. “But,” he added, “should any 
one come to you about the show just send them to me. 

42 




MARION GIVES ADVICE 


I’ll take care of them. We probably shan’t call upon 
you at all.” 

Frazier meant every word he said in his last sentence. 

As Frazier and Cuddy stepped out of the district 
attorney’s office into the courthouse square, Cuddy 
chameleoned from dismal drab to shining silver. His 
budding heart burst into springtime bloom. For the 
first time he beheld his own circus parade and there, 
close to the head of the procession, her team of tandem 
whites stepping briskly to the music of the band, rode 
Miss Marion Fortescue! For the first time he beheld 
the circus girl in parade costume. She was all in white, 
from high-plumed hat to riding skirt. If youth must 
be served, let it be served in a Virginia town on a 
soft spring morning by the vision of a white-clad circus 
girl on milk-white steed! Cuddy struggled against 
leaving the sidewalk and soaring into the cerulean sky. 

“I told you how easy it was to fix a town. They all 
want the grift.” Frazier was trying to talk. 

“Cut it,” demanded Cuddy. “My father spent 
one hundred and fifty thousand dollars just so I could 
see this.” 

Cuddy thought he was referring to the parade. He 
was, in fact, referring to Miss Marion Fortescue, of 
the clear, pink complexion, the daintily gloved hands, 
the exquisite profile, the equestrienne grace, and hair 
of Tuscan gold. She smiled cheerfully as she passed 
him. He raised his hat. “You gave me good advice,” 
he thought. 

The rest of the parade followed. There were knights 

43 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


and ladies in courtly costumes, open dens of dubi¬ 
ously wild animals, plodding pachyderms, supercilious 
camels, the clown band, the vociferous calliope. These 
passed him, but he saw them not. They were all his, 
or would be, when he had won his fight. But the thing 
that mattered was the young girl on the milk-white 
steed, the girl in white, with hair of Tuscan gold! 

Then from ecstasy Cuddy turned to querulousness. 

“Who’s that fellow who leads the parade?” He 
turned to Frazier. “I mean the big one all dressed 
up like a cavalier who rode just ahead of Miss For- 
tescue. The one with the hard-looking face.*’ 

“Oh, him,” Frazier answered. “That’s Montrose 
Manson, the equestrian director. He’s a pretty impor¬ 
tant fellow around this show. He always leads the 
parade. Marion sort of belongs to Manson. He 
broke her into the business.” 

Frazier resumed his dissertation upon the frailty 
of official mankind, and of towners in general. 

“These towners are always looking for their bit,” 
he said. “They come and ask you for it if you don’t 
run around and hand it to ’em. Some folks think the 
grift’s all wrong, but it’s been part of the show business 
since the Civil War, when the southern states put their 
licenses so high the circuses had to grift to cover ex¬ 
penses. Now the local officials think they must have 
it. And as for the village simps and the country yaps, 
they’re just itching for a chance to show how smart 
they are with the show folks.” 

Cuddy tried to ignore Frazier. His soul centered 
44 




MARION GIVES ADVICE 


upon a beautiful young girl with pink complexion, 
daintily gloved hands, exquisite profile, matchless 
grace, and hair of gold, the girl on the milk-white 
steed. Hang Frazier! Why couldn’t he keep quiet! 
And hang Manson, too! He was too much in evidence. 

They reached the circus lot as the parade returned. 
Marion’s horse nearly stepped on Cuddy. She leaned 
down to him. 

“Get rid of Frazier,” she said in a low voice. 

Frazier was surveying the crowd for possible 
suckers. 

Cuddy replied with quiet assurance: “I surely will.” 

When Frazier turned to him, Cuddy was humming 
a tune. 

“What tune is that?” asked Frazier. 

“Oh, something from a musical comedy,” Cuddy 
answered carelessly. He lied. He had been singing 
softly to himself: 

“In days of old when knights were bold 
And barons held their sway, 

A warrior bold, with spurs of gold, 

Sang merrily his lay.” 

Frazier, whose job was to sell Cuddy on the circus 
grift idea, was a business man and not a romanticist. 
“Come into the kid show, Mr. Cotter, and I’ll show 
you how hungry these boobs are for the grift/’ he 
said. “I’ll see you don’t get hurt like you did yester¬ 
day,” he added, “That was a most regrettable acci¬ 
dent.” 


45 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“Before I go in there, Frazier, tell me why Montrose 
Manson is confabbing with Guv’ner Calkins all the 
time. There they are now, powwowing over by the 
ticket wagon.” 

“Oh, Manson has to talk to Guv’ner Calkins a lot, 
seem’ as how Manson’s equestrian director. He’s 
pretty strong with Goldman, too.” 

“Is that why I just heard Manson say to Goldman, 
The next time you sap that simp, sap him good and 
hard’? And whom do you suppose Manson was re¬ 
ferring to as the ‘simp’ ?” 

“Oh, no one in particular, I guess,” the fixer an¬ 
swered. “Let’s go into the kid show, Mr. Cotter, so 
I can show you just how easy the towners fall for the 
circus grift.” 




V 

AMONG THE GRIFTERS 


I N obedience to Fatty Frazier’s suggestion Cuddy 
followed the fixer into the side show to receive 
his first instructions in grift as an applied science. 
Allured by the eloquence of old Doc Inman’s bally¬ 
hoo, the blatant banners, and the blaring band, a num¬ 
ber of town and country folk were gazing upon the 
Museum of Monstrosities with that vacuity peculiar 
to side show patrons. The deeply indented sword 
swallower, the highly muraled tattooed gentleman, the 
Circassian lady with the sleepy snakes held attention 
for a moment. Then other attractions caught the pub¬ 
lic’s eye. 

Near the side of the tent, in a conspicuous position, 
hung a huge banner bearing the letters of the alphabet, 
with legends of great import. If the lucky holder of 
a twenty-five-cent ticket drew the letter “E” from one 
of many envelopes in a box beneath the banner he 
would win a bottle of cologne worth one dollar, if a 
“G,” his prize would be a two-dollar bottle, an “R,” he 
might carry away a three-dollar bottle of cologne. 

“That’s a cologne joint, one of the oldest and easiest 
of the cinches,” Frazier whispered in Cuddy’s ear. 
47 


CUBBY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


The suave grifter in charge had many twenty-five- 
cent customers. Each in turn picked an envelope from 
a paper box and handed it to the grifter, who opened 
it, exhibited the letter it contained—and passed on to 
the next victim. 

“No one seems to draw the lucky numbers,” re¬ 
marked Cuddy. 

“It works this way,” volunteered Frazier. “If a 
boob happens to draw a winning letter, such as ‘E,’ 
the grifter draws it out until it looks like an ‘F,’ which 
doesn’t win anything. Or if the simp lights on a win¬ 
ning ‘G,’ the grifter pulls it out just far enough to 
show that it’s a ‘C,’ which is also a blank. If a lucky 
‘R’ happens to be drawn, the grifter pulls it out of 
the envelope until it look like a ‘P,’ say ‘a blank’ or 
something like that—and the boob doesn’t win. 

“Now this swinging ball is a little more scientific.” 
Frazier moved to another grifter’s field of operations. 
A wooden cone rested base down upon a small plat¬ 
form. From a little frame above the cone hung a 
small rubber ball. The operator of this device was 
harvesting quarters as fast as he could take them in at 
“two bits a try.” 

Frazier explained. “The game is to knock the cone 
over with the swinging ball. The joke is, that if the 
point of the cone is directly beneath the point from 
which the ball hangs, any boob can knock the cone 
over. See the village smarty try it? He missed. 
That’s because the ‘joint man’—the operator—moved 
48 




AMONG THE GRIFTERS 


the cone just a little from the center. And no one can 
hit it now, until he moves it back. Very simple.” 

“Why,” exclaimed Cuddy, “that’s a problem in 
physics! They teach that in physics lab, at college!” 

“They may teach it, but no one learns it, until he 
studies it under a circus tent,” remarked the circus 
fixer. 

Goldman, chief of the grifters, passed upon his 
slinking way. 

“Everything all right?” he shot at Frazier through 
the corner of his mouth. He glowered at Cuddy, who 
glowered in turn. 

“Sure. Not a wrong one in town,” Frazier shot 
back from the corner of his mouth. 

“I don’t understand that mouth-corner conversa¬ 
tion,” suggested Cuddy. 

“That means that none of the local officials here are 
wrong. They are wrong when they can’t be fixed. 
They’re all right here. You saw me fix ’em.” 

“Will they stay fixed?” 

“If there’s not too many ‘squawks.’ ” 

“What’s a ‘squawk’?” 

“A holler from a bird that’s had some of his feath¬ 
ers plucked.” 

While Cuddy digested this picturesque language, he 
was conducted to a roll-down. Each patron of the 
roll-down invested twenty-five cents in three marbles. 
These rolled from top to bottom of an inclined board 
set with many pins. If the marbles fell into certain 
slots the investor won cash or merchandise. If not— 
49 



CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“See that joint man’s hand resting on the edge of 
the roll-down board,” said Frazier to Cuddy. “Looks 
as if he was just resting it there, eh ? But if he presses 
a little, the marbles fall into winning slots—for the 
‘shillabers’ or 'cappers.’ No one else wins.” 

A horizontal fortune wheel was doing business near 
the Punch and Judy stand. A farmer lad shouted 
“Wait a minute” to the operator, reached over from 
the outside of the group of townsfolk, placed a dollar 
on a certain number and won forty. Business boomed 
there for a few minutes, but the wheel won all the 
money wagered. 

“He’s what we call a 'reach-over/ ” explained the 
fixer. “He’s with the show. One of Goldman’s men. 
The other fellows who were winning just before him 
are 'shills’ or 'shillabers’ or ‘boosters’ or ‘cappers.’ 
They’re local talent. We hire them for five dollars 
apiece.” 

; “To help rob their friends!” said Cuddy. 

/‘They think it’s smart,” said Frazier. 

An adventurous countryman wagered fifteen dollars 
on a turn of the wheel and lost. He made violent pro¬ 
test. Cuddy recalled yesterday’s riot. 

“The game is crooked,” the loser yelled. Cuddy 
prepared for another clem. 

Another farmer took the sucker by the arm. 

“Come on. Let’s go from here. We can’t win at 
this game. I just lost some money, too.” 

The twain wandered away, earnestly discussing 
their losses. 


50 




AMONG THE GRIFTERS 


‘‘That last farmer is one of Goldman’s men,” ex¬ 
plained Frazier. “We call him a ‘steerer’ or ‘outside 
man.’ You understand about the wheel. The operator 
or ‘spieler’ stops it where he wants to, by his foot 
underneath the table, or by leaning against the wheel 
with his stomach. But this is all small stuff. Come 
behind the curtain here and I’ll show you a strong 
joint.” 

One of Goldman’s expert craftsmen was presiding 
at a three-shell game. “Goes better than ever/’ whis¬ 
pered Frazier to Cuddy. “There’s a three-card monte 
game next to that. The fellow just getting up sold a 
horse to Calkins this morning for three hundred dol¬ 
lars. Then Calkins introduced him to this game. Cal¬ 
kins lost a little jack, which he’ll get back from the 
grifters, on the quiet.” 

The horse dealer rose. 

“I’m clean, but you wait until I get down to the 
bank and back. I can beat this game,” he declared. 

“All right, Colonel. Always glad to give a gentle¬ 
man a chance to get even,” the card shark replied. 

“Doesn’t cost Guv’ner Calkins much for his horses,” 
remarked Frazier. “Hello! It’s dinner time. This 
afternoon I’ll put you next to the ‘walk-a-way’ on the 
ticket wagon to see how the ‘lucky boys’ ‘take the cake’ 
on the outside, and how the ‘connection men’ work on 
the inside.” 

Cuddy sought Marion Fortescue after dinner. The 
girl was sitting in the shade of the dressing room mend¬ 
ing a flimsy blue ballet skirt. “For my wire act,” she 
5i 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


explained. “How are you getting on with Frazier?” 

Cuddy related the day’s revelations. “And I sup¬ 
pose the end is not yet,” he concluded sadly. He was 
crouched at her feet now, smoking a cigarette and 
watching her fingers at their expert work. 

“I hinted to Guv’ner Calkins that you had rich rela¬ 
tives who might let you put some more money in this 
show,” she told him. “That’s one reason you’re still 
here.” 

“There’s no chance of my putting any more money 
into this show or into anything else.” This from 
Cuddy. 

“I know that.” She looked squarely at him. 

“Then why did you invent that yarn for Calkins?” 

“I wanted you to have your chance as a showman.” 

“Oh, I’m not licked yet,” said Cuddy. 

“No good trouper ever is,” she replied. 

“Do you know, Miss Fortescue,” said Cuddy, “you 
certainly did look stunning on parade this morning.” 

Miss Marion Fortescue turned a deeper pink. Her 
needle pricked her finger. 

“It’s very nice of you to say that.” 

“I mean it. I mean what I say now, and I meant 
what I said last night, that I’ll stick to this show if it 
kills me.” 

“I wouldn’t like to have you do that. Be killed, you 
know.” 

“I’m not very tough, yet,” he answered, “but I can 
hang on. And I made up my mind this morning that 
I am head over heels in love”—she looked up quickly— 
52 



AMONG THE GRIFTERS 


“with the show business/’ Her eyes returned to her 
sewing. 

“You’re an awfully nice boy,” she said. “Much too 
nice to be in the show business. You’ll go back to your 
home and your college some day.” 

“College is a million miles from me now,” he de¬ 
clared. And he leaned against a tent stake and with 
great comfort finished his cigarette. He was on his 
great adventure. 

“Letter for you, Mr. Cotter.” It was the circus mail 
agent. “It’s a special delivery, but I signed for it,” 
he added. 

Cuddy took the legal-sized envelope with surprise. 
Then he saw that it was from Uncle Ned’s office. 
Cuddy opened it casually. Then he turned as red as 
his band wagon. On Uncle Ned’s letter sheet were 
the typed lines: “I haven’t told Marjorie what you are 
doing—but I think you are treating her shabbily.” 
There was a smaller envelope addressed to him in care 
of Uncle Ned in Marjorie Trent’s handwriting. 

“Will you excuse me, Miss Fortescue?” said Cuddy. 

“Certainly,” she replied, and went on with her mend¬ 
ing. Leaning against a wardrobe trunk Cuddy read: 

“Dearest Cuddy : 

“I’ve tried in vain to understand your strange letter from 
New York and your stranger disappearance. I fail to 
visualize any situation which might provoke either. So 
far as I can learn, only your Uncle Ned knows where you 
are and what you are doing. He will tell me nothing over 
the long distance. He hints that you are doing something 

53 



CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


that you want to hide from me. You must let me know 
where you are and what you are doing. Every one in 
college misses you. Slats Murphy was, apparently, the 
last of the crowd to see you. Many foolish stories float 
around the campus. Do you think you are quite fair to 
me? I have not told father and mother of your disap¬ 
pearance, but I shall have to soon. Cuddy, you know 
what you mean to me. 

“Marjorie.” 

Cuddy read the letter three times. Each time it be¬ 
came less and less distinct. There were certain tradi¬ 
tions in Marjorie’s family that were never broken. 
They would not forgive him for becoming a circus 
man. They were particularly fussy about social class. 
And she thought him a coward and a sneak! 

Cuddy put the letter in his pocket. He looked up 
at Marion Fortescue. “Remarkable,” he thought, 
“that such a girl could have grown up in a circus 
ring.” He wondered who her people were. Perhaps 
not anybody in particular. He hadn’t found time to 
learn much about that. Perhaps she did not have social 
distinctions to worry about. 

Slowly, very slowly, Cuddy drew Marjorie’s letter 
from his pocket, and slowly, very slowly, he struck a 
match and held the burning letter until only a black 
ash clung to his fingers. Finally the wind blew that 
bit of black ash after its fellows. 

“Thank you for giving me so much help, Miss 
Fortescue,” he said. “I have to go on the front door 
now to see how they open the big show.” 

54 




AMONG THE GRIFTERS 


Miss Fortescue, looking up from the mended circus 
costume, watched the black ashes dance across the 
sodded lot into a neighboring field. Then she joined 
Montrose Manson in the pad room. 

“Manson,” she said, “you and I have had a sort of 
understanding about each other for the past three 
years. I know you feel that I owe my professional 
success to you and I don’t doubt that I do. But I 
want to be square with you and tell you that—unless 
—something—very—unexpected—happens—I cannot 
—marry—you.” 

The equestrian director whirled on her, whip in 
hand. 

“I know what’s in your mind, Marion,” he growled, 
his face thrust close to hers. “But when the time 
comes you’ll make up your mind the way I want it— 
and—you’ll go—with me.” 

“Don’t be so sure, my long-time friend. You’ve 
blown your equestrian director’s whistle and cracked 
your trainer’s whip so long that you think every one 
must jump to your commands. For once you may 
be, and probably are, mistaken.” 

“As for that,” he snapped at her, “the simp you’ve 
lost your head about will not be on the show next 
week. When he’s been blowed you’ll have some sense. 
Until then—I’ll remember you’re a female. I’ve 
trained all kinds. A mare is always flightier than a 
horse. But I can handle you.” 


55 



VI 

THE FIXING OF FRAZIER 


“ | EFORE I start to clean the house I must know 
where the dirt is,” reflected Cuddy, as he pre¬ 
pared to take his second lesson in practical 
circus grift. Having seen the grifters “working the 
towners” in the side show, he was preparing to witness 
similar operations in other circus departments. He 
decided to give the “front door” his next attention. 

“This pile of jack to my right,” Rony explained to 
Cuddy, as the latter stepped into the ticket wagon, “is 
show money. * Circus cash on hand' you might call 
it. The smaller pile to my left is the walk-away. See 
this fellow sticking up a five-dollar bill for two tickets. 
I always ask each one how many he wants so there’s no 
dispute. This bird called for two. That’s twice seventy- 
five cents, which is one dollar and fifty cents, including 
war tax. I give him back two one-dollar bills and 
five quarters. By the time he gets out of that jam 
in front of the wagon and counts his money he may 
or may not find out he is a quarter shy. If he does 
find out he is shy and fights his way back through the 
crowd to the window, I may or may not give him the 
quarter holdout. Depends on how much he squawks. 

56 


THE FIXING OF FRAZIER 


As a rule I give it back as soon as the simp squawks. 
Most of them never come back. Very few of them 
squawk. Lots of them never miss it.” 

Rony was working with machinelike speed while he 
talked. Two hundred natives or towners were trying 
to buy tickets at once. Rony’s window ledge was 
above their heads. They had to reach up to get their 
tickets. Rony could see them, but they could not see 
him. He had the advantage of position and shadow. 
He worked automatically, throwing the walk-away 
money to his left as he worked. What Rony lacked 
in size he made up in speed, and “ginger.” 

“How much in the walk-away pile?” asked Cuddy. 

Rony merely glanced at it. “About twenty dol¬ 
lars,” he said. 

“Mostly quarters?” 

“Some halfs. Are you coming back to count up 
after the big show starts?” He wiped his freckled 
brow with a veteran bandanna. 

“Not to-day, Rony. Must watch the performance 
to-day. Have seen it only once since I came on the 
show.’’ Cuddy was mastering some of the circus ver¬ 
nacular. 

Fatty Frazier awaited him as Cuddy left the ticket 
wagon. “Want to show you how Jerry Miggins and 
Ed Bard, the ducky boys/ take the cake,” he said. 

Frazier led the way toward the marquee which 
marked the front entrance. Just where the in-going 
crowd was thickest stood short, fat, ruddy Jerry and 
long, thin, pale-faced Ed, each in his shirt sleeves, each 
57 



CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


with a small black satchel slung by a narrow strap 
from his shoulders. Each satchel was open so that 
all the world might see the money contained therein. 
Beneath the visor of each “lucky boy’s ,: ’ cap shone a 
pair of shifty eyes. 

Jerry’s roving glance alighted upon a likely-looking 
prospect whom he addressed with: 

“Excuse me, friend. But I’m manager of this show 
and we’re terribly long on change. Could you let 
me have a ten-dollar bill for silver?” 

The obliging native produced the bill; jovial Jerry 
thanked him, carefully counted the silver dollars into 
the hand of the native, put the ten-dollar bill in his 
satchel, then moved discreetly to a new position. An 
“outside man” gently pushed the victim through the 
main entrance. In five minutes the victim, having 
discovered that he had been counted out of a dollar, 
breasted the incoming stream of circus patrons and 
sought Jerry, who could not be found. 

Ed Bard solemnly intervened. “Looking for that 
feller that gave you change?” he asked. “He’s a 
crook. He don’t belong with the show. We had 
him arrested,” the long thin Bard asserted as he ushered 
the victim back into the circus tent. 

Frazier called Cuddy’s attention to the finesse of 
these “lucky boys.” “They keep this up all day—but 
they just miss being artists,” Frazier complained. 
“They each take about eighty dollars’ worth of cake a 
day. Their bit is only fifteen per cent. But if they 
improve and don’t have many squawks and don’t have 

58 




THE FIXING OF FRAZIER 


to throw much money back, Goldman promotes them to 
the strong joints in the kid show. That’s where the 
big grift money is.” 

Cuddy began to feel ill again. Giddily he followed 
Fatty Frazier into the menagerie and was presented 
to Butch Batchellor, an engaging individual with two 
hamlike fists. 

“Butch has the candy stand, red hot and balloon 
privileges with the show,” Frazier explained. “His 
boys work from the candy stands and on the seats, 
on salary and commission, but the show is supposed 
to get all the short change these silver men cop.” 

“How much do they—cop?” queried Cuddy, becom¬ 
ing more and more disgusted. He longed to meet 
some one without a shifty eye. 

“More than they turn into Calkins and Goldman,” 
admitted Frazier in a burst of confidence. “They 
get two dollars a week, ten per cent commission, trans¬ 
portation, board and berth. But they get away with 
a lot of the short-change silver, too. All Calkins and 
Goldman can do is to keep down the average of the 
butcher boys’ private holdout. Each boy usually turns 
in four or five dollars a day to Calkins, who divides it 
with Goldman.” 

Frazier led Cuddy to the canvas alley or “connec¬ 
tion” between the menagerie tent and the main tent or 
big top where Frazier presented Frisco Red and Osh¬ 
kosh Phil, as “pretty good connection men.” “Re¬ 
served seats are only a quarter in this town so our 
grift isn’t so good,” explained Oshkosh Phil—“but 
59 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


just watch Red work.” A poorly dressed woman 
leading a little boy paused to purchase a reserved seat. 
She gave Red a two-dollar bill. Red remarked po¬ 
litely: “Madam, you will not need any reserved seat 
for the little boy, not on this show. You can hold 
him on your lap.” “Thank you, sir,” she said, as he 
handed her a dollar bill, a quarter, a dime and three 
nickels. “That leaves Red a quarter to the good,” 
Phil grinned. “Not one in a hundred ever catches 
him at it.” 

Cuddy nodded, in understanding. “That’s dirty, 
sneaking thievery,” he muttered. 

“Of course this all looks like small business to you,” 
Frazier said apologetically. He saw a look of disap¬ 
pointment on Cuddy’s face. Cuddy couldn’t help 
showing some of his feelings. So Frazier tried to 
comfort him with, “It’s the small money that counts 
up. 

“A show couldn’t live on what it takes in on the 
front door. The profits come from the side show, the 
pit show, the girl show, the kid show, the concert, the 
candy stands, red hot stands—and the grift. Then, 
of course, the show runs a crap game in the side show 
or kid show for the workingmen. That crap game is 
all on the square, you know, but Guv’ner Calkins and 
Sol Goldman get a good stiff rake-off from it. That’s 
the same with the stud poker and the roulette wheel 
in the privilege car. Then, of course, the kinkers in 
the dressing room, the windjammers in the band, the 
rough-necks on canvas, stable men on horses, animal 
60 




THE FIXING OF FRAZIER 


men, and the razorbacks on the train crew, everybody 
on the show has to eat after the night performance, so 
they buy privilege car pie books from the show and 
the books are charged against their pay, and they eat 
or drink or gamble most of their money back to the 
show.” 

“Do you think that’s all right?” asked Cuddy. 

“Sure,” said Frazier. “If the pay roll people didn’t 
spend it on the privilege car they’d spend it downtown 
nights and maybe miss the train in the bargain. And 
Calkins won’t let any grifter work on the show unless 
that grifter will go against Calkins’ own games on the 
privilege car. Guv’ner Calkins and Sol Goldman have 
an understanding about that. They mean to keep the 
grifters broke. Grifters work best that way.” 

“They’re not very smart,” said Cuddy. 

“If they were smart they wouldn’t be grifters.” 

“Supposing through some e—er—error in your 
work as legal adjuster, Mr. Frazier, some of these gen¬ 
tlemen of chance should happen to be arrested ?” 

“The grifters know that we’ll always spring them 
out. That’s one rule that’s never broken on this show. 
We never leave a man in jail. He’s sprung by the time 
the train pulls out for the next town.” 

“Always?” 

“Always,” said Frazier, his eye on the “connection” 
men. 

And there Cuddy left him, to look for more advice. 

“It’s not going to be so easy to get rid of Fatty 
61 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


Frazier,” Cuddy admitted to Marion Fortescue that 
afternoon. 

“Try to get the district attorney to put Frazier away 
to-night,” she suggested. 

“That would be impossible; the district attorney’s 
been fixed by Frazier,” Cuddy replied. 

“Won’t you please put it up to the district attor¬ 
ney?” Marion pleaded. “I know much more about 
these things than you do.” 

Cuddy vanished from the circus lot and presently 
appeared before the district attorney. That gentleman 
was providentially in his office. He recognized Cuddy 
without difficulty. That was one of his best bets, his 
ability to recall a face once he had seen it and to name 
a name once he had heard it. 

“Mr. District Attorney,” said Cuddy, “I was pres¬ 
ent this morning when Fatty Frazier, fixer for Cal¬ 
kins’ Circus, handed you a bribe. As I did not object 
I may be technically a party to the crime. But I don’t 
think so, for I am going to bring charges against you 
unless you put Frazier in jail on a charge of attempted 
bribery and keep him there two weeks.” 

“That is preposterous, impossible!” The district at¬ 
torney swelled with indignation. “Frazier merely re¬ 
tained me as attorney for Calkins’ Circus. Leave my 
office instantly, young man!” He advanced threaten¬ 
ingly. 

Cuddy sadly picked up his hat. It had been a silly 
bluff. Of course it could not have worked. The tele- 
62 




THE FIXING OF FRAZIER 


phone bell rang. The district attorney talked long and 
acidly with the party on the other end of the line. 

“All right, Colonel. I must respect your wishes in 
the matter.” 

The district attorney hung up the receiver. He was 
unhappy. 

“I don’t know how you managed to bring Colonel 
Charles Farnwood, proprietor of the Dawsville Herald 
and of Dawsville politics, into this case, but I’ve just 
had my orders from him. Frazier will be put away at 
ten o’clock to-night.” Cuddy dazedly withdrew. 

At nine-thirty that night Jerry Miggins came in 
haste into the presence of Fatty Frazier, fixer for Cal¬ 
kins’ Circus, on the circus lot. 

“Better beat it to the district attorney’s office,” Jerry 
wheezed. “There’s been an awful squawk down there 
account of some raw work by the strong joints.” 

Frazier did not hesitate. At ten o’clock he was in 
the district attorney’s office. At twelve o’clock he was 
in the county jail. At twelve-thirty the special train 
bearing Calkins’ Classical Circus, Mammoth Menag¬ 
erie, Museum of Monstrosities and Free Horse Fair 
pulled out of Dawsville without its official fixer. 

Cuddy, curled up in his berth, covertly rejoiced while 
Guv’ner Calkins and Sol Goldman fretted at the loss 
of Fatty Frazier. 

“Damned funny we couldn’t spring our own fixer,” 
said Calkins. 

“Damned funny we couldn’t give a bond in a case 
like that,” said Goldman. 

“How much did you get on the day, Goldman?” 

63 



CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


Calkins asked the important question of his chief 
grifter. 

“Total of two thousand nine hundred and fifty dol¬ 
lars. Pretty good day for the grift.” 

“About as much jack as we got with the show. Let’s 
see what it cost for fixing and squaring.” He con¬ 
sulted Frazier’s memorandum. 

“Sheriff’s office cost thirty-five dollars. District at¬ 
torney’s office, twenty-five dollars. Police, twenty dol¬ 
lars. Tickets, forty broads at seventy-five cents; thirty 
reserves at fifty cents. Total, one hundred and twenty- 
five dollars. No squawks and no throwbacks,” he read. 

Cuddy noted that Frazier’s actual expenditures 
and his charges to his boss were not the same. They 
did not tally. Frazier had “held out” on his boss. 

Goldman spread the grift money, in currency and 
coin, on Calkins’ table. Calkins counted it, found the 
amount as given, deducted one hundred and twenty- 
five dollars from the total, divided the remainder into 
two piles of one thousand four hundred and twelve 
dollars and fifty cents each, pushed one pile across the 
table to Goldman, and stuffed the other pile into a 
rusty leather wallet which he then slipped into his inside 
vest pocket. 

“About Frazier, now,” Calkins resumed. 

Inspired by the same idea they turned toward Cuddy. 
That youth breathed deeply, regularly, with eyes closed. 

“That simp never could have framed it,” they sig¬ 
naled to each other. 

Cuddy was puzzled by his own sudden success, by 

64 




THE FIXING OF FRAZIER 


the ease with which he had disposed of Frazier. He 
was also puzzled by two messages Rony Gavin slipped 
into his hand as Gavin passed through the privilege 
car just before the circus train left Dawsville. 

One message was signed by Marion Fortescue and 
contained one word “Congratulations.’* The other was 
a telegram from Uncle Ned. It was a little longer 
and quite querulous. “Who in thunder is Marion For¬ 
tescue ?” it demanded. 




VII 

A BLOW-OFF 


C UDDY was seriously contemplating an answer 
to Uncle Ned’s telegram: “Who in thunder 
is Marion Fortescue?” 

Three days had passed since that message reached 
college-bred Cuddy, theoretical owner of Calkins’ 
Classical Circus, Mammoth Menagerie, Museum of 
Monstrosities and Free Horse Fair, at Dawsville, Vir¬ 
ginia. Cuddy—three days and three hundred miles 
from Dawsville—was still contemplating an answer. 
He was also contemplating Marion Fortescue, about 
to parade through Dundonald’s streets. 

Cuddy’s survey of Marion Fortescue was, for the 
moment, distant. She was chatting with Montrose 
Manson, equestrian director and master horse-trainer 
of the show. She wore the white-plumed hat and the 
white riding costume which had so intrigued Cuddy at 
Dawsville. Her slender figure was clearly outlined 
against the red and gold of the first band wagon. Back 
of that were the white tents of the circus. Back of 
the tents were the red clay hills, the dark green pines 
and the clear blue sky of a Virginia spring morning. 
It was a morning to set one’s soul at peace, or to make 
66 


A BLOW-OFF 


it sing to the symphony of tramping horses, clinking 
harness, roaring lions, trumpeting elephants, tentative 
notes from the circus bands and a clarion bugle call 
announcing that the parade was ready to leave the lot. 
It was a symphony that called to youth but found no 
response in Cuddy’s soul. 

Cuddy was only twenty-one, and as he continued to 
regard Marion Fortescue that capable young lady took 
the reins of her white tandem team from the hands of 
Montrose Manson, put one hand on Manson’s shoulder 
and swung onto her saddle horse. Cuddy regarded 
Manson’s assistance as offensively superfluous. And 
he didn’t know how to answer Uncle Ned’s telegram. 

Who in thunder was Marion Fortesque? Cuddy 
had been trying to solve that riddle for three days. 
He could spend hours describing her if he were talking 
across the table in Uncle Ned’s New York office and 
that testy relative would spare the hours from his legal 
practice. Or he could sit down and write reams about 
her to Uncle Ned, if he had the time to write or Uncle 
Ned had the patience to read. But as for salient facts, 
the few he could relate w r ere bald enough—to the un¬ 
sympathetic outsider. He could recite them in a mo¬ 
ment, like quotations from a catalogue. 

Marion Fortescue was a circus performer, twenty 
years old, muscular, slender, very pretty, with hair of 
Tuscan gold. That sounded trite enough. Marion 
Fortescue had a strange power that kept him on the 
circus against his will and the will of Calkins and his 
gr if ting crew. That sounded like nonsense, but he 

67 



CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


knew it to be true. Marion Fortescue was Cuddy’s 
only hope of getting possession of the circus and win¬ 
ning back the one hundred and fifty thousand dollars 
his late father had sunk in the circus venture. That 
sounded like a business proposition. Uncle Ned knew 
that if Cuddy didn’t put over that business proposition 
Cuddy would start his post-college career without a 
penny. The whole thing was bizarre enough. But 
that was the situation Cuddy faced. 

Cuddy’s conscience smote him for burning Marjorie 
Dawson Trent’s letter at Dawsville. That was no way 
to treat his college sweetheart. But what else could 
he do as long as he must keep under cover and hide 
his whereabouts and his daily deeds from all the old 
college crowd? Cuddy was wrestling with a prob¬ 
lem he had not found in Euclid. 

Calkins brought him out of his blue funk by mak¬ 
ing him see red. The transformation was effected by 
a simple question. 

“When you going to put some money into this show, 
Mr. Cotter?” 

“I’ve put all the money into this show I’m going to 
put,” Cuddy snapped this at the rubicund, grifting 
showman, as the latter disturbed Cuddy’s contempla¬ 
tion of his life’s problem, and of Miss Marion Fortes¬ 
cue riding away near the head of the parade, just be¬ 
hind Montrose Manson, whom Cuddy somehow re¬ 
garded as his evil genius. 

“But you haven’t put any money into the show yet,” 
remonstrated the circus impresario. 

68 




A BLOW-OFF 


“My father did. A clear one hundred and fifty 
thousand dollars.” 

“Yes. But that’s all gone into the show.” 

“And the show’s mine. I have a bill of sale for it.” 

“So you told me at Roanoke when you first came. 
But you didn’t show me the bill and I never had no 
notice of its being recorded anywhere.” 

“I had it all right, when I came on the show.” 

“Ain’t you got it now ?” 

Cuddy lighted a fresh cigarette. 

“You and your gang frisked me for it after you 
knocked me cold in that clem at Roanoke,” he an¬ 
swered, in Calkins’ vernacular. 

“Now, Mr. Cotter, you and I had that out days ago.” 
The showman spoke in accents mild. “I admit that I 
did give your father a bill of sale for the show and 
that you told me you had inherited it. I also admit 
that your uncle, Nathaniel Cotter, advised me that you 
had such a bill of sale and was the legal owner of the 
show. But I don’t see no evidence. And I haven’t 
never seen no evidence. I asked you for it the day 
you came on and you stalled. Then you mixed up in 
a clem and got knocked cold. When you came out 
of that you said some one had stole your bill of sale. 
Why pick on me? First I saw of you after the clem 
was your being nursed by Marion Fortescue. You 
were flat on your back behind the dressing room with 
your head in her lap and—” 

Cuddy’s unaccustomed right fist plumped into Cal¬ 
kins’ meaty jaw. The surprised showman heeled over 
69 





CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


a side rope and sprawled upon the ground. For the 
first time since his callow childhood Cuddy beheld blood 
of his own bringing. He shed his culture with his 
coat, leaped upon the prostrate showman and pounded 
him with all the strength of outraged virtue until Cal¬ 
kins yelled for help. 

Jerry Miggins, connection man of the circus grifters, 
pulled the fighting Cuddy from the suffering showman. 
Then Jerry locked two apelike arms around the strug¬ 
gling youth and looked at his chief. 

“What shall I do, Guv’ner? Run him off ?” 

Calkins wiped the blood from his face. 

“Let him go,” he said. “I’ll settle this business with 
him myself. You fellows beat it.” 

Miggins and the other rescuers retreated into the 
menagerie tent. They understood Calkins. He liked 
to settle such matters in his own way—after dark. 
They didn’t know that in a matter of a hundred sec¬ 
onds Cuddy had turned from college boy to cave man. 
Cuddy didn’t know it himself, at first. What he said 
was: 

“Calkins, bill of sale or no bill of sale, I’m boss of 
this show now. I’m taking full charge. I’ll do all the 
counting up and handle all the money. I’ll run every 
grifter off the lot before six o’clock, and this show’ll 
be clean from now on.” He advanced militantly upon 
the pursy showman who rubbed his bruised double¬ 
chin and backed off. 

“Say,” demanded Calkins, “how do you get that 
way?” 


70 




A BLOW-OFF 


“I get that way, you cheap grifter,” Cuddy barked 
at him, “because I’m sick of seeing you and Goldman’s 
gang robbing women and children, to say nothing of 
the full-grown townsfolk and the country yokels who 
should know enough to take care of themselves. I’m 
sick of being a party to such rottenness, and I’m sick 
of seeing you trying to do me out of my own property. 
Some one on this circus has the bill of sale that shows 
I’m legal owner here. Until that turns up, and after, 
I’m going to own this show, in fact, if not in law. 
Do you get me, you big fat slob ?” 

Uncouth words from the mouth of the leader of the 
college cotillion. Cuddy did not recognize them nor 
himself, nor did he recognize the once white hand 
whose knuckles bled from abrasion against a show¬ 
man’s jaw. All Cuddy recognized was the idea of pos¬ 
session of the circus which was rightfully his, and 
possession of—two bright lanes forked from the 
highway of his life. At the end of one lane stood a 
tall dark girl in white sport clothes and bright red tarn. 
She beckoned to him across a college campus. It was 
thus he had last seen Marjorie Dawson Trent. At 
the end of the other lane stood a small blonde girl in 
gingham dress and hair of Tuscan gold. She came 
gayly into the circus tent and waved a fresh good morn¬ 
ing. It was thus he had first seen Marion Fortescue. 

“Tell Goldman I want to see him in the ticket 
wagon,” said Cuddy crisply, as he turned his back on 
the outbattled showman. 


71 



CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


Goldman appeared at the wagon with miraculous 
speed. 

“Goldman/’ said Cuddy to the chief grifter, “I’m 
boss now. Calkins has probably told you, so it’ll be 
no news to you. The big news I wanted to give you 
is that you and your gr if ting gang are through with 
this show. If every one of you isn’t off the lot by six 
o’clock to-night, I’ll run you off. Do you get that? 
I’ll run you off. And when the train pulls out to-night 
I’ll be sure there isn’t one of your gang on the privilege 
car. You’ll get off this show and stay clear off or I’ll 
put you away just as I did Fatty Frazier in Dawsville. 
Do you get me, Goldman?” 

Goldman, the seasoned circus grifter, had reached his 
eminence in the underworld through resourcefulness. 
Without change of expression, as one whose life was 
merely a succession of crises, he quickly replied: 

“You’re quite right, Mr. Cotter. I’ll do anything 
you say. I’m sick of the grifting business, anyway. 
I’ll tell my boys not to work here any more. And 
I’ll make arrangements to leave the show with them 
this afternoon, unless you can find something for us 
to do.” 

“There’s nothing you can do for me but get out,” 
said Cuddy, “except settle with Rony, here, for what¬ 
ever you owe on privilege-car berths. Then you’re 
done. And if there’s any doubt in your mind about 
what I mean” (Cuddy exhibited his skinned knuckles) 
“I haven’t broken any bones yet but I’m ready to break 
72 




A BLOW-OFF 


some of mine and yours if you hesitate about being 
run away from this show.” 

How easily does fighting stock revert to form! 
Cuddy had forgotten that he was eligible to member¬ 
ship in the Sons of the Revolution. Goldman backed 
out of the ticket wagon in apologetic haste. 

“Now, Rony,” said Cuddy, addressing Rony Gavin, 
circus treasurer. “Let’s you and I have a nice, friendly 
understanding. You’ve been working for Calkins and 
doing the things he wanted you to do. I don’t hold 
that against you. That’s business. Now you’re work¬ 
ing for me and you’ll do the things I want you to do. 
Is that satisfactory?” 

“Just what do you mean, Mr. Cotter?” 

“You’ll get a salary of fifty dollars a week as treas¬ 
urer of this show. That’s a pretty good salary as 
circus-treasurers’ salaries go. There’ll be mighty 
little walk-away from now on. You’re to see that 
every towner gets the change he has coming. I’ll make 
that easy for you, because if there is any walk-away 
I’ll take it and not you. But I’ll tell you this: The 
less walk-away there is in this wagon, the more salary 
I’m going to pay you. You probably think I’m a 
crazy simp but I’m going to try to prove to you and 
the rest of the people on this show that I’m not en¬ 
tirely a damn fool. What do you say? Do you ac¬ 
cept my proposition?” 

“If you’re Guv’ner of this show now, what you say 
goes,” Rony replied. 

“All right. Show me your books and the cash.” 

73 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


Rony hesitated. 

“If you’re in doubt as to who’s boss at this circus, 
ask Calkins. There he is, out there in front of the 
side show, trying to put his head on straight.” 

Rony hastened to confer with his long-time chief. 
The debate was visible from the ticket wagon. It was 
brief. Gavin resumed his seat in the ticket wagon. 

“You’re Guv’ner, Mr. Cotter,” he said. “Here are 
the books and here’s the cash on hand.” 

“I’ll count up with you, after this,” said Cuddy, 
“and mind you, no walk-away.” 

“All right, Guv’ner.” 

“And, Rony.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You’ve been pretty square with me since I came 
on this show a plain simp.” 

“You didn’t know anything about the business when 
you joined at Roanoke, Mr. Cotter.” 

“I’ve been a better student here than I was in col¬ 
lege,” said Cuddy. “And I’ll just give you this little 
tip, Rony. You play the game with me and I’ll make 
it worth your while.” 

“All right, Mr. Cotter.” Cuddy took his copy of 
the cash slip and sallied forth to deliver his declaration 
of independence to the various department heads—and 
to greet the returning circus parade. 

“I’ve done it,” he announced to Miss Marion For- 
tescue as she turned her tandem team over to a stable¬ 
man. 


“Done what?” 


74 




A BLOW-OFF 


“Declared myself boss and taken over the show.” 

“How?” 

“By beating up Calkins and giving Goldman and 
his gang the run-off.” 

Miss Fortescue smiled at Cuddy and his tightened 
jaw, his steely eyes and his bloodstained fist. 

“You are—what would your friends in college say? 
Oh, yes. You are increasing your vo-cab-u-lar-y.” 

“And my experience.” 

“Your great experience has just begun.” 

“I know it, Miss Fortescue.” He eyed her eagerly. 

“You’ll have a great deal of trouble with Calkins 
and Goldman.” She returned his gaze soberly. 

“I'll fight them to a finish.” 

“Of course.” 

They entered the pad room. Manson, equestrian 
director, was preparing a principal horse for a riding 
rehearsal in the ring. 

“By the way, Manson,” said Cuddy, “please tell both 
dressing rooms that I’m Guv’ner now.” 

Manson looked at him dubiously. 

“If you doubt it, ask Calkins,” said Cuddy. “And, 
Manson.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I’ll lead the parade after this.” 

“All right, sir,” answered Manson. Cuddy marched 
toward the stables. 

“Can you beat it!” said Manson to himself. “He 
comes on here a college simp lessen a week ago and 
now he’s going to run the show—and lead the parade. 
75 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


Can you beat it? And they call this the show busi¬ 
ness! I give him three days before he’s run off the 
lot.” 

In less than three hours, events on the circus lot 
proved that Marioh Fortescue was a prophetess as 
well as a performer. 

Cuddy dashed into trouble as soon as the side show 
opened to catch the after-parade crowd. Doc Inman 
was ballyhooing from an outside platform with the as¬ 
sistance of Sadie Smith, the Hindoo snake charmer 
from Hoboken. Doc called on heaven to witness that 
in all the world of freakdom there was no show like 
that within the tented walls. He slapped the gaudy 
banners with his eloquent cane and bade the negro 
band burst forth in brassy blare. The countryfolk, 
light and dark, surged forward to invest their quarters 
in the educating exhibit which awaited them. Nimble¬ 
fingered ticket sellers on raised ticket stands exchanged 
quarters for stiff, red admission tickets, the holders of 
which crowded through the roped aisle to the front 
door where a doorman took the tickets and dropped 
them through the tin slot of the side show ticket box. 

Cuddy slipped along the side wall of the side show 
tent until he was close to the door, but out of the 
doorman’s sight. That thrifty individual, seeing no 
sign of danger, palmed a handful of tickets, slipped 
them into his pocket instead of his ticket box, waited 
until there was a lull in business, then casually stepped 
out to the ticket seller’s stand, and passed the palmed 
tickets back to the ticket seller. 

76 




A BLOW-OFF 


“Ten/’ he said softly to the ticket seller. 

The latter ran a practiced thumb over their edges. 
“Check/’ he replied, and sold them again, to their 
mutual profit. 

The doorman reached his ticket box just as Cuddy’s 
fist reached his left ear. The doorman sank to the 
grass back of the ticket box. Cuddy kicked him pre¬ 
cisely. 

“Go to the wagon and get your money. I’ll take 
this door,” announced the new circus boss. 

The ex-doorman staggered toward the ticket wagon, 
occasionally casting an amazed look at Clarence Cud- 
dington Cotter. 

“I didn’t know I had it in me,” thought Cuddy as 
he deftly collected tickets from his cash customers. 
“Some of this bunch will certainly brain me before 
the day is done. But there’s a lot of satisfaction in 
it while it lasts.” 

“No grift and no ‘cooch’ show, Doc.” Cuddy issued 
this order as his side show manager passed through 
the side show door to lecture on the varied perform¬ 
ance within. Cuddy experienced a certain thrill in 
issuing orders. He was astonished at the promptness 
with which they were obeyed. Doc Inman, who had 
been brought up on grift and “cooch” in a side show, 
had answered “Yes” to Cuddy’s order, without a word 
of protest. Cuddy was congratulating himself on 
this easy victory as he stepped into the side show tent 
a few minutes later. Then he called all congratula¬ 
tions off. 


77 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


Goldman’s men were there in force. The swinging 
ball, the roll-down, the cologne joint, all the time-hon¬ 
ored, crooked games were going at top speed. Cuddy 
dashed behind the canvas wall which curtained off the 
far end of the side show tent. There, just as usual, 
were the three-card-monte men and the three-shell men 
plying their profitable trade without any suggestion 
of hindrance or reform. Cuddy had no time to go 
into action here. Before he could start a clean-up, 
he heard the voice of Old Doc Inman on the other side 
of an extra partition which sheltered one of Calkins' 
pet indecencies, the “cooch” blow-off. Doc was bally- 
hooing to the suckers gathered there. 

“Gentlemen,” he said, “there are no ladies within 
this special inclosure because we advised you to leave 
them outside. This girl show is for men, only. And 
believe me, boys, you sports are going to see some¬ 
thing. The real, genuine, red-hot dance from the 
Orient. Only fifty cents apiece, gents. If you want 
to stay, just throw the coin into my hat here. Those 
that are married, or talk in their sleep, or don’t want 
to see somethin’ rich, rare, and racy better go on out¬ 
side. All set? Let’s go, Fatima. Start the fire¬ 
works.” 

“Fatima,” who had been adjusting his generous wig 
and his diaphanous costume, and the rest of his female 
impersonator make-up, appeared on the stage in the 
“cooch” inclosure, while two of the negro band obliged 
with an alleged Oriental air. But “Fatima” did not 
start the fireworks. Cuddy did. He fought with 

78 




A BLOW-OFF 


bare fists, chairs, tent pegs, and bare fists again; what¬ 
ever came handy. He tore down the partition walls 
and snatched off the “Oriental” dancer’s wig, thus 
exposing that gentleman to the harsh criticism of a 
disillusioned group of village sports. He kicked the 
three-card-monte men and three-shell workers through 
the sidewall. He fought in haymaker fashion with 
the grifters, cappers, boosters, booster handlers and 
others of the crooked gentry clustered around the 
cologne joint, the swinging ball, the roll-down. The 
gr if ting clan gathered at the call of danger. Ed Bard, 
Jerry Miggins, Frisco Red, Oshkosh Phil and others 
of Goldman’s grifters engaged the berserking Cuddy, 
each to bite the dust in turn. Finally Cuddy turned 
upon Goldman—who, as chief grifter, had stood at a 
safe distance and urged his cohorts to slaughter—and 
chased him down the country road. 

It was a great battle while it lasted. 

“Oi’ve seen many a clem in me toime,” quoth Micky 
O’Mara of the stable forces, “but niver did I see wan 
more glorious than the Cuddy gentleman presided over 
this day. You mark me, that foine broth of a bye, for 
all he has no more than a hundred an’ sixty pounds to 
his weight, is for being wan iv th’ champeen prize 
fighters when he gits his growth.” 

“He lacks science now, but he has the wind and the 
footwork,” admitted Pop McGinnis, boss canvasman. 

“I saw nothing slow about his hands,” chimed Chan¬ 
delier Whitey, as he pottered around the light wagon 
getting ready for the evening performance. 

79 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


From his canvas chair in the main show entrance, 
Calkins beheld the tumult and heard the shouting with¬ 
out sign of excitement. “This won’t last long,” he 
muttered. “Manson’ll fix that simp.” And following 
a brief conference with his old-time chief, during which 
they agreed that Cuddy could best be handled by indi¬ 
rect methods, Montrose Manson, equestrian director, 
held Marion Fortescue against a wardrobe wagon be¬ 
hind the dressing room. “You stay away from that 
simp,” he growled. “You stay away from him. If 
the grifters don’t break his neck, I will. Y’under- 
stand?” Marion said nothing but she knew that the 
threat was not an idle one. 

Cuddy, hero of his second fistic adventure, puffing 
mightily and mightily puffed up, not from pride but 
from punishment, was as wrecked as his own side 
show. That institution had been torn to ribbons by 
combatants and by escaping freaks and customers, who, 
finding themselves on common ground, competed for 
position in hurdle races and hundred-yard dashes. 
Cuddy’s own clothing was merely a reminder of what 
once had been. One of his eyes was nearly closed 
and turning blue. His face was cut and scratched in 
a dozen places. His hands were skinned as if by a 
potato peeler. Had he entered his own college halls, 
no one would have recognized him, not even the campus 
cop. 

Jules Towner, clown and pig trainer, led him to the 
pad room. A bareback rider brought a bucket of 
water, a horizontal bar performer stripped him to the 
80 




A BLOW-OFF 


waist and rubbed him down. He heard the women 
performers on the other side of the pad room sounding 
his praises. Evidently most of the performers were 
with him. Marion Fortescue had told him they would 
be if he fought for a clean show. 

“We’re sick of sneaking from the lot to the train 
every night after the grifters have robbed the town- 
ers,” she had said. “We work for Qur money hon¬ 
estly.” 

Cuddy had fought and bled. 

“Will some one get me a shirt and some raw beef?” 
he mumbled through his thickening lips. “I’ve got to 
see what’s going on this afternoon if I never see again.” 
He carefully put tongue to teeth. Thank the Lord 
none of them had been knocked out. Cuddy was proud 
of his teeth. And he thought he might have to show 
them again. 

He was still far from being a pretty thing when he 
encountered Calkins on the front door at the big show 
opening. With travail Cuddy had been able to eat a 
little dinner, but it had not been a comforting meal. 
“For a person who hasn’t fought since childhood I 
must have done pretty well,” he admitted to himself, 
“but they gave me all I wanted and a little more than 
I was ready to take.” 

Cuddy was just as mad when he saw Calkins in the 
afternoon as he had been when they had met in the 
morning. 

“Why isn’t Rony Gavin in the ticket wagon?” he 
demanded of Calkins, who rose hastily from his broad 
81 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


canvas chair at the front door and sidled over toward 
the side wall. 

don’t know, Mr. Cotter. Where is Rony Gavin, 
Balter ?” 

“Gone down to the train, sick, Mr. Cotter,” an¬ 
swered young and snappy Bings Balter, the press agent, 
his pockets bulging with local newspapers. 

“Who’s in the wagon in Gavin’s place?” 

“Eddie Atkins, the regular front-door man.” 

“And who’s taking tickets in Eddie’s place on the 
front door?’* 

“I’m all alone on the front door,” said Balter. 

“Will you grab a taxi, rush it to the train and bring 
back a report on Rony just as soon as you can, Bings?” 

“Sure, Guv’ner,” responded the press agent, duck¬ 
ing under the marquee ropes and losing himself in the 
crowd. 

Cuddy swelled visibly. Bings Balter had addressed 
him by his official title in Calkins’ hearing—the first 
time any one on the show had publicly so addressed 
him. That was very decent of Bings Balter. Cuddy 
would remember that. Excellent press agent was 
Balter. Should be getting more salary. Cuddy 
strutted—it was just a little strut, but a strut it was 
—over to his predecessor in high places. 

“Calkins, you take the door for a while,” said Cuddy. 
Then he went inside to see that everything was ready 
for the big show. He found a new man taking tickets 
on the reserved seats, and a new man selling reserved 
seats in the connection between menagerie and big top. 

82 




A BLOW-OFF 


“Who sent you in here?” he demanded of each new 
job holder. 

“Mr. Calkins,” each answered. 

Cuddy hurried back to the front door. 

“Who are those new men on reserved-seat tickets?” 

“A couple of substitutes,” Calkins answered. 

“Where are the regular men?” Cuddy demanded. 

“Both down to the train, sick. Somethin’ wrong 
with the cookhouse grub yesterday.” 

Cuddy cross-examined the circus steward. 

“My records show every one else on the lot well but 
Gavin, and the two men on reserved seats. Couldn’t 
have been anything wrong with the grub,” protested 
the steward. 

Cuddy made a hurried tour of the lot and found the 
steward’s statement correct. But he didn’t get back 
to the front door in time to see Calkins pass two hun¬ 
dred general-admission tickets back from the front 
door to the ticket wagon, nor to see the new reserved- 
seat ticket taker pass a hundred reserved tickets back 
from the reserved-seat section to the reserved-seat 
ticket seller at the connection between menagerie and 
big top. Calkins was aware of both transactions. He 
was “in” on them. The resale would not appear in 
the official count but the proceeds would, in the pock¬ 
ets of Calkins and his co-conspirators. They were 
“trimming the simp.” 

As Cuddy reached the front door, a pony “punk” 
approached him. 

“Miss Fortescue wants to see you,” the boy said. 

83 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


Cuddy glanced at the remains of his watch. The 
remains said the hour was 1155. He walked rapidly 
around menagerie and big top to the pad room. 

“Please tell Miss Fortescue I am here,” he told old 
Jenny Adams, the wardrobe woman. 

“All right, Guv’ner,” Mrs. Adams reported. 

Ah! there it was again! The Adams woman had 
addressed him as Guv’ner. Ah, well. She was a good 
woman and a good seamstress in the bargain. He 
must not forget about her. 

After five minutes Miss Fortescue appeared. 

“Did you send for me?” he asked. 

“When, Mr. Cotter ?” 

“Just now.” 

“Oh, dear me, no. There must be some mistake. 
I would never ask you to come back to the pad room 
when you should be watching the front door.” She 
seemed quite distressed about it. “Who told you I 
wanted you?” she demanded. 

“Some pony ‘punk’ from the pad room.” 

“Please hurry back to the front door. I heard that 
Rony Gavin’s not in the wagon. This is part of a 
scheme to trim you on the ticket count-up.’’ She fairly 
pushed him out of the pad room. 

Cuddy ran for the main entrance. But Calkins and 
Eddie Atkins were quicker than he. Another two 
hundred tickets had passed from front door to ticket 
wagon there to be sold again—for the benefit of the 
“trimming” pair. While Cuddy was trying to pre¬ 
vent that leak, the reserved-seat ticket taker passed 
84 




A BLOW-OFF 


back to the reserved-seat ticket seller another hundred 
tickets—also to be resold for the benefit of that pair 
of “trimmers” and Calkins who participated in both 
“trims.” 

“Rony Gavin’s in the train, sick, Guv’ner. Looks 
like he’s been doped,” Balter reported. 

“I’ll settle with you for all of this,” said Cuddy to 
the cringing Calkins. 

Cuddy was dismayed that afternoon when he counted 
the tickets in the reserved-seat ticket box and found 
there were, apparently, only two hundred and sixty- 
four persons occupying five hundred well-filled seats. 
He was still more dismayed when he counted the gen¬ 
eral admission tickets. He had guessed at two thou¬ 
sand, four hundred dollars as the receipts on the “front 
door.” The count of tickets showed total front-door 
receipts of only eight hundred dollars. 

“I’m not a regular treasurer, you know, Guv’ner,” 
said Eddie Atkins. “But this count tallies with my 
cash and the tickets in my rack. So I must be all 
right.” 

“Looks that way,” admitted Cuddy, ruefully. 

Many towners stayed for the afternoon concert. 
Business was good at the evening side show opening. 
The big top was crowded for the evening performance. 
But Cuddy found, on counting up after the evening 
performance began, the same paucity of cash as in the 
afternoon. 


85 




VIII 

THE BLOW-DOWN 

T HERE was trouble all over the lot that eve¬ 
ning. Little fights started up, no one knew 
how, in every direction. Some one was al¬ 
ways sending for “Guv’ner Cotter.” Cuddy hot¬ 
footed from fight to fight. He paused at one place 
to put out a fire in the hay left by the stable men. At 
another to settle a row around the red-hot stand. The 
cookhouse wagon bogged in a ditch getting off the 
lot and that incident demanded his personal attention. 
A storm was coming up from the west. Cuddy was 
tired and worried. His first day as boss of his own 
show had been a trying one. He hurried into the 
ticket wagon to count up. 

“Shall I take this money down to Rony Gavin’s 
stateroom and turn it over to him?” asked Eddie 
Atkins, when the count was verified. 

“All right,” said Cuddy. “Pop McGinnis says we’ll 
have to tear down in a hurry to-night. There’s a blow 
coming.” 

It had been a hot, stifling day and a hotter and more 
stifling night. “Ideal circus weather,” as Pop Mc- 
86 


THE BLOW-DOWN 


Ginnis put it. For your circus patrons come in greater 
throngs when the heat is most oppressive. The hotter 
the weather the better the business. The flags at the 
pole tops had hung limp against their staffs all day 
long. Men and horses had suffered in sun and shade 
—even the elephants and cat animals had complained 
of the heat in their own peculiar ways. No respite 
came with the setting sun; only the promise of some¬ 
thing cooler. That promise took the form of a bank 
of clouds slowly lifting over the western horizon. 
Lightning played among the clouds as they advanced. 

“We’ll get a twister and a soaker to-night but it’s 
better than just naturally melting to death,” remarked 
the boss property man, as he pulled on his slicker and 
cautioned his assistants to get out all the tarpaulins 
and to see that none of the performers’ stuff got wet. 

The grand entree, trick-riding acts, Japanese bal¬ 
ancing acts had passed, and the feature act of the Five 
Flying Fortescues had reached its sensational finale, 
when the circus mail-agent handed Cuddy a letter. 
Without looking at it, Cuddy tucked it into his pocket. 
He stood in the center of the tent as Marion completed 
her triple somersault from the dome of the canvas and 
responded to the packed tent’s applause. The perform¬ 
ing elephants had been led into the ring for their act. 
The evening program was running rapidly and 
smoothly. The only sound that warned the circus peo¬ 
ple of danger was the rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat of 
McGinnis’ rough-neck gang as they sledge hammered 
the extra tent stakes into the ground outside. There 

87 





CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


wasn’t any wind up to that minute. Then with a bang 
the twister hit the circus lot. 

There was a ripping of canvas, snapping of poles, 
smashing of seats, trumpeting of elephants, screaming 
of women—and darkness and a deluge of water de¬ 
scended upon the wreck of Calkins’ show and upon 
three thousand human beings fighting beneath a flat¬ 
tened, sodden canvas. 

When the storm struck, Cuddy instinctively ran 
toward the wind and the dressing room exit, dodging 
falling poles as he went. He reached the exit as the 
big tent collapsed. The dressing room went down 
with it. Every light on the lot went out. The per¬ 
formers, trained by years of trouping for such emer¬ 
gencies, had scurried for the open, most of them in 
rubber coats. Behind him Cuddy heard the squealing 
of the frightened elephants as they tore aside canvas, 
poles, seats and wreckage and stampeded into the night. 
He also heard a girl’s voice, or thought he heard it, 
calling: “Steady, King. Steady, Rajah. Steady, 

Baldy,” as the big bulls pounded out of sight and hear¬ 
ing. Flash lights appeared in the hands of McGinnis 
and other department men. Other lights flashed in the 
hands of some of the performers. The canvasmen, 
seat men, property men and other workmen of the 
show began a rapid unlacing of the canvas sections of 
the big top. Hundreds crawled like rats through the 
openings thus made or through holes already torn in 
the canvas. Circus men followed, bearing limp forms 
88 




THE BLOW-DOWN 


of women and children, trampled on, struck by poles, 
suffocated or in swoon. 

Cuddy darted from group to group of the perform¬ 
ers, looking for Marion. No one had seen her after 
the blow-down. 

“She was just taking her bow in the center ring, 
right in front of you, when the blow-down came,” 
Jules Turner, the clown, told him. “That’s the last 
I saw of her.” 

Cuddy continued his search. He put the question 
to Bill Rhodes, boss hostler. 

“She’s probably with the bulls. They’ll listen to her 
when Weed, the bull man, can’t handle them,” he sug¬ 
gested. 

“Any idea which way they went?” 

“Somewhere in that direction. Maybe running 
yet,” said Bill, pointing vaguely over his shoulder. 

Cuddy plunged into the darkness. He fell over 
wagon tongues, nearly broke his legs on tent stakes, 
cut his hands on barbed-wire fences. Then, down at 
a corner of the lot in a little group of trees, he found 
the elephants and Marion. 

She stood there, in her rain-soaked, ring costume, 
surrounded by her gigantic pets, talking, talking, talk¬ 
ing to them. Cuddy called to her. She recognized 
his voice. 

“Don’t come in here,” she warned him. “These 
bulls are all right with me. I’ll get them to the cars. 
You go back on the lot where you belong. You’ll 
have enough to do to-night. Just tell Weed where I 
89 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


am and tell him to bring me a slicker. That’s all. 
I’m going to put these elephants to bed.” 

Marion spoke with the wisdom of her twenty years 
and especially of her ten years of trouping, when she 
warned Cuddy that he would have plenty to do on the 
circus lot that night. A circus blow-down is no tea 
party to an old-timer. To a novice it is catastrophe. 

Soaked to the skin, knee-deep in water, surrounded 
by a mass of twisted poles, ropes, canvas and mis¬ 
cellaneous circus paraphernalia, struggling and swear¬ 
ing workmen, struggling and hysterical towners, 
Cuddy gazed about over the fallen estate which had 
been his less than twelve hours. 

His little army of workers was back of him—that 
was one consolation. True to the traditions of their 
calling, the bosses and their mud-covered helpers were 
sorting the remnants of Cuddy’s stock in trade and 
hoisting them into their proper wagons. Chandelier 
Whitey managed to get a few coal-oil torches going. 
In their dim and flickering light, the rough-necks 
worked desperately to salvage such as might be sal¬ 
vaged from the blow-down. And when each wagon 
had its load, and sixteen horses could not move it 
through the mud, Weed was called upon to bring the 
most reliable and least nervous of the bulls from the 
elephant car so that they might do their extra bit by 
pushing. 




IX 


THE BLOW-UP 


T HREE o’clock had struck in the Dundonald’s 
courthouse tower before trainmaster Galva 
Green had the last wagon on the train, the 
wagon runs pulled up on the flats, the chuck blocks 
spiked under each wagon wheel, the pull-up team 
stowed in the stock car. 

“Any chance of getting the show up on the lot to¬ 
morrow ?” 

Cuddy leveled this question at Boss Canvasman 
McGinnis, when that general and his squad of muddy 
stake and chain men reached the train at the tail of 
the chandelier wagon. 

“Tell you better to-morrow, Guv’ner. A blow¬ 
down’s a blow-down. To-night’s was a peach. If we 
have enough extra center poles on the train, we may 
be able to cut it. I dunno.” McGinnis was not much 
on promises. Performance was his long suit. 

Cuddy climbed into the privilege car, made sure 
that the stud poker and crap games had gone the way 
of the Goldman grifting gang, and sat down to a cup 
of coffee. He was fagged, and breathing hard. He 
felt twice his twenty-one years. His thoughts turned 
9i 


CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


fondly toward his stateroom, still shared with Calkins. 
He could sleep anywhere to-night if he only had a 
chance. He started toward his berth. A razorback 
of the trainmaster’s crew stopped him with: 

“Excuse me, Guv’ner, but Mr. Green wants to see 
you on the back platform.” 

Cuddy stepped to the rear platform of the privilege 
car and peered into the watery night. 

“Sorry, Guv’ner,” Green said out of the darkness. 
“The show’s attached on account of injuries in the 
blow-down.” 

“What does that mean?” demanded Cuddy. 

A deputy sheriff handed him a summons. Cuddy 
glanced at it. He wasn’t much up on attachments of 
that character. Green, who knew them well, pointed 
out the vital words: “Damages—five thousand dollars. 
Good and sufficient bond—fifteen thousand dollars.” 

“You have to pay the damages or give the bond 
before the show leaves town,” explained the veteran 
trainmaster. “We’ll have to pull out pretty quick if 
we make the next town—Chatman—by sun-up. It’s a 
seventy-mile run and we’ll not average more than 
twenty miles an hour over these railroad grades.” 

“What’ll I do, Green?” 

“Better see Mr. Calkins, Guv’ner,” suggested the 
trainmaster. “Maybe he carried a blanket surety bond. 
He used to. In that case you just call up the local 
lawyer for the surety company and he’ll have a bond 
fixed up in no time. Most shows carry a surety bond 
92 




THE BLOW-UP 


now so the towners can’t hold them up or shake them 
down.” 

Cuddy made his way through the rain-soaked and 
pie-eating rough-necks of the privilege car to his state¬ 
room, and shook Calkins by the shoulder. 

“The show’s attached,” he said to the drowsy Cal¬ 
kins. “What surety bond are you carrying?” 

“Haven’t had a surety bond this season,” Calkins 
said from the depths of his berth. “Fatty Frazier used 
to square all the shakes or kicks that came along.” 

“And Frazier’s in jail in Dawsville.” 

“That’s where you put him, Mr. Cotter,” was Cal¬ 
kins’ rejoinder as he rolled over and snored “Good¬ 
night” to his successor. 

Cuddy reported lack of progress to his trainmaster. 

“Maybe Rony Gavin has enough cash in his treas¬ 
urer’s safe to square this attachment,” suggested the 
resourceful Green. 

Cuddy aroused Rony, still a bit flighty from the dope 
administered to him by some unfriendly hand. Cuddy 
outlined his dilemma. 

“I had two thousand three hundred and forty-two 
dollars and thirty-two cents in cash this morning when 
I was carried from the ticket wagon,” Rony said. 
“Some one said your orders were to turn the wagon 
over to Eddie Atkins. I was too far gone to question 
that.” 

“How much did Eddie turn in to you here after 
I counted with him in the wagon during the night 
show ?” asked Cuddy. 


93 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


That question left Rony wide awake. 

“No one has turned any cash over to me to-day. I 
haven’t seen any one since Bings Balter came down 
from the lot this morning to ask me how I was getting 
along. I’ve just laid here too sick to move. Haven’t 
you got the day’s cash, Guv’ner ?” 

Cuddy gasped. 

“I told Eddie Atkins to turn it over to you,” he said. 

“If Eddie isn’t on the train, you’re trimmed,” was 
Rony’s laconic response. 

Cuddy searched the men’s sleeping cars. None of 
the porters, none of the few circus men still awake had 
seen Atkins. The rain still fell on the waiting circus 
train. Cuddy carried the news to Rony. 

“Eddie’s ducked away from the show and taken the 
jack. You’re flat and the show’s blown up,” was 
Rony’s pronouncement. 

Cuddy sank to the edge of Rony’s berth. Elbows 
on knees he tried to prop up his tired head. That head 
refused to register a thought. He was all in. He 
leaned against the end of Rony’s berth. His hands 
dropped from his head to his sides. As his right hand 
slipped over his breast it encountered the crumpled 
letter he had thrust into his pocket just before the blow¬ 
down. Mechanically Cuddy pulled the letter out. It 
was soggy and blurred by the rain. He switched on 
the electric light above his head, and recognized the 
writing of Marjorie Dawson Trent. Still mechani¬ 
cally, he straightened out the wrinkled, water-streaked 
pages and read: 


94 





THE BLOW-UP 


“Dearest Cuddy: 

“Although no new word has reached me from you, I 
know you are very near to me, even though you went 
so swiftly and silently away. Every night you come to 
me in my sleep and you are just the same old sweet, 
courageous Cuddy. Nothing that may happen can ever 
change the days we had together, can ever let us forget 
that we were made for, and promised to, each other. And 
so I pray for you, Cuddy, and wait for you and I know 
that you’ll soon come back to me and to all your friends 
and mine. Every one misses you so. I didn’t go to the 
big spring formal. I couldn’t—without you. The campus 
is so green and the lake so blue—because spring makes 
them so. But they are not the green and the blue they 
would be if you were with me. Commencement week 
will soon be here, with the ivy planting, the old reunions 
and the final walks over the hill. You’ll come back for 
that, surely. We all look for you. I wake up every 
morning feeling that you must be here. I go to sleep 
every night knowing that you must, you must come back 
to us to-morrow. Does this sound like a love letter? I 
never loved you so much as I do to-night. And I shall 
love you more as the days go by. 

“Marjorie.’' 

There was a knock at the stateroom door. “Some 
one to see you, Guv’ner,” the sleepy porter announced. 

Cuddy stepped outside and almost on to the toes of 
Marion Fortescue. She was fully and dryly dressed, 
as fresh of face and trim of figure as if blow-downs 
and elephant hunts in the dark were part of her daily 
circus curriculum. Cuddy had barely noted this miracle 
before she said: 

“What’s holding up the train?” 

95 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


Cuddy explained matters. 

“Is there a telephone in the railroad station? Got 
any money ?” 

“I think so,” Cuddy said. “About money—about 
three hundred and fifty dollars/' 

“Let me use it, please.” He handed her his last 
cent. 

Guided by Galva Green, the trainmaster, they crossed 
the wet and gleaming tracks and slippery wooden plat¬ 
form and entered the dingy station. The deputy 
sheriff accompanied them. Marion spoke briefly to the 
station agent. 

“Come in here, ma’am, and use my ’phone,” he said. 

Marion motioned to Cuddy and Green and the 
deputy sheriff to remain in the waiting room. They 
waited nearly an hour. Cuddy drowsed. Mind and 
body yielded to exhaustion and the heat from the soft- 
coal stove. The deputy sheriff remained alert, wait¬ 
ing for some showman’s trick. Green, refreshed from 
his day-long sleep, paced the floor, fuming because his 
train could not move. Every ten minutes he glanced 
at his watch. 

“Engine coupled on, everything loaded, next town 
seventy miles away, show all shot to pieces from a 
blow-down. Should be in the next town with my 
runner planks down and ready to unload right now. 
We’ll be three hours’ late into Chatman, if we get there 
at all. There sure is some jinx on this show.” He 
continued this low-toned monologue without interrup- 
96 




THE BLOW-UP 


tion, until a snappy-looking young man breezed into 
the station. 

“Where’s Miss Marion Fortescue?” he demanded. 

Green indicated the station agent’s office and con¬ 
tinued his walk. The deputy sheriff exchanged greet¬ 
ings with the new arrival as that gentleman vanished 
through the office door. Before Cuddy had fully 
awakened to the situation, the deputy sheriff was sum¬ 
moned into the office. Snatches of crisp conversation 
penetrated the wooden partition. 

“This is a perfectly good bond, sheriff.” 

“Yes—but—” 

“You know my standing as an attorney. You know 
the signatures on this bond are genuine. You know 
these bondsmen are perfectly good.” 

“Yes—but—” 

“Then there is no other formality required.” There 
was much decision in the attorney’s voice. 

“You forget my interest in this matter.” It was 
the station agent speaking. 

“What’s that?” snapped the attorney. 

“I must have, for the railroad, three hundred and 
twenty-five dollars to cover the haul to Chatman be¬ 
fore this circus train moves out of these yards.” 

“Here it is. Give me your receipt—on the circus 
contract/’ 

Cuddy recognized Marion’s voice. 

The group emerged from the station agent’s office. 

“This is Guv’ner Cotter, sole proprietor and man¬ 
ager of Calkins’ Circus,” announced Miss Fortescue, 
97 



CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


bringing forward the snappy young attorney. “Guv’ner 
Cotter, this is Franklin Desmond, distinguished Dun- 
donald attorney. Mr. Desmond has kindly arranged 
a surety bond for us. Here’s your railroad receipt. 
Good night, sheriff. Let us know when you want the 
case heard, Mr. Desmond. Am very sorry to have 
gotten you out on such a night as this. Here’s your 
change, Mr. Cotter. Good night, Mr. Agent. Thank 
you all very much. Glad you remembered me from 
last season, Mr. Desmond.” 

“Let’s go,” urged the restless trainmaster, swinging 
his lantern in anticipation of giving the long-looked- 
for starting signal. 

“Just a minute,” said Cuddy. “What’s the rate— 
straight wire rate—to New York, Mr. Agent?” 

“Fifty cents for ten words.” 

“Ten will be enough,” said Cuddy. He seized a tele¬ 
gram blank and scratched feverishly. “Send this, 
straight,” he ordered, producing a half dollar. 

Cuddy, Miss Fortescue, and Green tramped back 
across the shining tracks. Cuddy helped her up the 
steps of the women’s sleeping car, then made his way 
to the rear platform of the train. Green was hanging 
from the steps signaling the railroad man’s equivalent 
for “full speed ahead.” 

Presently the trainmaster joined his boss. The last 
train truck clicked over a switch frog and rolled toward 
the open country and Chatman. There were signs of 
daybreak in the east. 

“Pardon me, Guv’ner,” Green was shouting into 

98 




THE BLOW-UP 


Cuddy’s ear. “Pardon me, Guv’ner, but I’m an old, 
old trouper and I’ve a kind of fatherly interest in you. 
You’ve got the makings of a showman, but you need 
watching. You don’t have to tell me unless you want 
to, but what message did you send just now, just be¬ 
fore we pulled out?” 

“It was to my Uncle Ned, a New York lawyer,” 
shouted Cuddy in Green’s good ear. “It said: ‘Marion 
Fortescue is the eighth wonder of the world.’ ” 

“I’ll say she is,” shouted Green, the trainmaster. 
Then he added: “You better turn in now, Guv’ner. 
I’ll call you when we pull into Chatman.” 

Less than a minute later, Cuddy tumbled into his 
berth with his boots on, dead to the world. In his 
pocket, just over his heart, rested the letter from Mar¬ 
jorie Dawson Trent. 




X 


OUT OF THE MUD 

UDDY COTTER, late of Columbus College, 



contemplated the wreck of his family fortune, 


just arrived in Chatman from the blow-down 
in Dundonald. 

According to the brilliant posters decorating ad¬ 
jacent billboards, the multicolored legends on adjoining 
railroad cars, and gold-leaf lettering on many animal 
cages and baggage wagons, the official name of this 
fortune was Calkins’ Classical Circus, Mammoth 
Menagerie, Museum of Monstrosities and Free Horse 
Fair. But names meant nothing to Cuddy that 
morning. 

What boots it to be the owner of a circus if owner 
and circus are broke? If a previous night’s blow¬ 
down has played havoc with tents, poles, ropes, seats, 
rigging, lions, elephants and personnel? And there is 
no apparent prospect of bringing order out of chaos 
and reestablishing the circus as a going concern ? 

Mechanically, Galva Green and his train crew were 
rolling wagons off the flat cars, down the steel run¬ 
ways, onto the ground. Mechanically, Pop McGinnis 
and his canvasmen were tumbling out of their sleeping 


ioo 


OUT OF THE MUD 


cars and plodding through the mud toward the circus 
grounds. Mechanically, Bill Rhodes and his hostler 
were bringing the horses out of the stock cars, hitch¬ 
ing them onto wagons and starting for the lot. 
Mechanically, Watertown Weed, boss bull-man, was 
standing by with the circus elephants to see if they 
might be needed to push the heavy wagons up the hill 
from the railroad tracks. The water dripped from 
tarpaulins and rubber coats, but the work went on. 

Once put a circus in motion and it takes more than 
a blow-down and wet weather to stop its momentum. 
About the only thing that will stop it is the lack of 
money. 

Cuddy, standing by the runways in his dripping 
slicker, wondered where he could find two thousand 
seven hundred dollars. That was the minimum he would 
need to meet the expenses of his circus that day, 
whether any one came to the show or not. And most 
of the two thousand seven hundred dollars might be re¬ 
quired before breakfast. He knew that as soon as he 
reached the lot he would be called upon to pay for 
cookhouse and stable food, state, city and county 
license, ground rental, gasoline for the circus lights, 
ropes, canvas, poles, stakes and other material for re¬ 
pairs. There would be a dozen emergency bills because 
of last night’s storm. These must be paid in cash, in 
addition to which he would probably receive an urgent 
request to wire six hundred dollars or so to the adver¬ 
tising brigade a thousand miles away and two weeks 
in advance of the show. The advance brigade was 


IOI 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


always wiring for money. And Manson had reported 
four crippled ring horses. 

It happened that when Cuddy waded on to the water¬ 
logged lot at Chatman, the sun broke through the 
clouds just as he encountered Marion. 

“You didn’t have much rest last night, Mr. Cotter,” 
she greeted him. 

“You were up as late as I—until the train pulled 
out of Dundonald after four o’clock this morning,” 
he answered. Then he added, enviously: “But I don’t 
see how you can bob up this morning looking like a 
freshly budded rose.” 

“And I don’t see how you can have the courage to 
pay me a compliment on a rainy morning when your 
show’s all shot to pieces,” she replied with a smile. 

“Won’t you break down under the strain of troup- 
ing?” he asked. 

“Not I,” she replied. “I sleep all day Sunday.” 

“How did you perform that miracle in Dundonald?” 
he asked. 

“No miracle about that,” she answered. “Mr. Des¬ 
mond is a circus fan. He’ll do anything for a circus. 
He was on the lot in Dundonald, but I guess you didn’t 
meet him. All us troupers know him. He’ll stall that 
damage case along until next winter. Then you can 
go back to Dundonald and settle it on your own terms. 
And now that the show is here in Chatman?” 

They moved into the shade of a rising side wall. 
Pop McGinnis and the other heroes of many a struggle 
102 




OUT OF THE MUD 


with the elements were bringing order out of the 
wreckage. 

“And now that the show is here in Chatman ?” 
Cuddy repeated her question. “Here the show stays, 
unless I accomplish some financial sleight of hand. No 
money in the ticket wagon, no money in the safe, 
practically no money in the manager’s pocket and prob¬ 
ably no money in the company, anywhere. And to 
increase the tenseness of the situation—” He con¬ 
sulted a letter the circus mail-agent placed in his hands. 
“I have here a report from my twenty-four-hour man. 
It says, ‘I was unable to get a license from the city 
council of Chatman because The Chatman Commercial 
Club is holding a Trade Exposition on the fair grounds 
on our date and they don’t want any competition from 
traveling shows.’ Now that, I should say,” Cuddy 
tapped the letter with an unmanicured forefinger, “will 
about break this camel’s back.” 

“What else does he say?” Miss Fortescue inquired. 

“He suggests,” Cuddy resumed after further read¬ 
ing of the twenty-four-hour man’s report, “that I have 
Fatty Frazier fix the city council in some way. And 
Fatty Frazier lies in the dungeon of Dawsville, with 
my knowledge and consent, in fact, at my insistent de¬ 
mand!” 

“Your first job,” Miss Fortescue suggested, “will 
be to get Rony Gavin back in the ticket wagon. He 
should be all well again now. Let him handle all the 
orders against the show that come in from food men, 
lot owners, local contractors and the like, until you 
103 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


find a way out of the mud. Until you do have some 
plan, I think you should keep out of sight. I must 
get to the dressing room and see how much water got 
into my trunk last night. There’s Rony now.” She 
beckoned to the circus treasurer as that wan gentle¬ 
man picked his way across the muddy lot. Then she 
turned to her own business of the day, pausing a mo¬ 
ment to pat the trunks of the elephants she had res¬ 
cued from stampede and safely convoyed to the ele¬ 
phant car during the storm of the previous night. 

“Rony, have you ever been treasurer of a busted 
show before?” 

“Sure, Mr. Cotter,” said the experienced treasurer. 

“What’s the first move?” Cuddy demanded. 

“First move is for the Guv’ner, which is you, to get 
under cover.” 

“How about all these feed and other local bills which 
have to be paid?” 

“I’ll tell the towners that they’ll be settled as soon 
as you come on the lot.” 

“And what’ll I be doing in the meantime?” 

“I hope you’ll be down at the telegraph station wiring 
to some one for money.” 

“I don’t know any one to whom I can wire.” 

“Then we’ll have to think up something else. My 
stall will be only good until after breakfast. By that 
time the towners will be getting uneasy. But don’t 
you get that way, Mr. Cotter. 

“Some one around the show will think of a way out. 
Kind of sorry Fatty Frazier isn’t here. He was the 
104 




OUT OF THE MUD 


greatest fixer I ever knew. Calkins would have been 
crippled without him. Calkins isn’t any good by him¬ 
self. You found that out yesterday. And didn’t you 
put up some fight!” Rony gazed at his young boss 
with frank admiration. Then he added with some 
hesitation: “But you really should have some personal 
repairs made. You’re pretty badly marked, Guv’ner.” 

“I’ve bigger troubles than that on my mind.” 
Cuddy was thinking of the most pressing problem. 
Somehow he must get a circus license from the city 
council. If he could manage to make a parade and 
get the doors of the circus open he might gather in 
enough money to tide himself over his present crisis. 
He wished he knew something about legitimate fixing. 

Pop McGinnis, boss canvasman, presented himself. 

“Some crew of able seamen on this circus, Guv’ner. 
They haul this wreck out of the mud, patch up her 
seams, splice up the busted masts, take a few half 
hitches around the tent stakes and there you are—a 
big top that’ll partly keep the sun out, a menagerie 
that’ll partly keep the rain out, and a sidewall that’ll 
keep the crowd out if they don’t push too hard against 
it.” He bit into his plug of chewing tobacco with 
enthusiasm. 

Cuddy choked. “McGinnis,” he said, with his hand 
on the tough old trouper’s shoulder, “if I ever get out 
of this mess alive, I’ll give you and your boys a reward 
that’ll surprise you.” 

“That’s all right, Guv’ner,” the aged canvasman 
replied. “After the way you ran the grifters off the 
105 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


lot yesterday, me and my rough-necks will stay with 
you as long as there’s any staying done.” 

“Shake on that, McGinnis,” said Cuddy, and his 
fresh young hand clasped the horny old fist of the 
master of canvas and rope, the chief of the dwellers 
in tents. 

“Better duck, Guv’ner,” Rony whispered in Cuddy’s 
ear as several individuals not of the circus company 
bore down upon them. “I can recognize a man with 
a feed bill farther than he can see me.” Cuddy raised 
the sidewall and disappeared in the menagerie tent. 

“If those fellows weren’t so loyal to me, I’d run 
away from the whole thing,” Cuddy said to himself. 
“But I can’t quit them when they don’t quit me, and I 
can’t leave them flat when they look to me for a living. 
But how?” Cuddy sat down upon a bale of hay be¬ 
hind the cages and tried to think of some one he knew 
who would let him have two thousand seven hundred 
dollars—by wire. 

Uncle Ned might. No, that was out of the ques¬ 
tion. He knew his lawyer uncle too well. Uncle 
Ned, in turning over to Cuddy a bill of sale of Calkins’ 
circus, had been very careful to tell Cuddy that Cuddy 
was on his own. As far as Uncle Ned was concerned, 
Cuddy could make or break himself with his bill of 
sale for Calkins’ circus. With the exception of his 
Uncle Ned, Cuddy knew few men of affairs. 

His college chums were in the same remittance class 
as he had been. Such money as they received was as 
manna from heaven. Plenty of it descended upon 
io 6 




OUT OF THE MUD 


them, but none of it stuck. Not one of them would 
think of having two thousand seven hundred dollars 
in the bank. Or if they had that much, they wouldn’t 
think of sending it by wire to Cuddy. They would 
not consider it if Cuddy offered as security for the loan 
a circus which he did not legally own. 

Cuddy wondered who had robbed him of his bill 
of sale during his first day with Calkins’ circus. Prob¬ 
ably Sol Goldman, the chief of the grafters. Well— 
Goldman had been run away from the show by the 
might of Cuddy’s unaccustomed fist. That fist, with 
what steam Cuddy could put back of it, kept Cuddy 
at the head of the circus camp. But all the steam in 
the world couldn’t keep him there without money. 
Wasn’t there any one else he could turn to? He 
fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette—and produced 
Marjorie Trent’s letter—the rain-streaked letter which 
had reached him just before the blow-down the night 
before. 

Cuddy opened the letter once more. “I’m praying 
for you,” his college sweetheart had written. Cuddy 
read the whole letter over again. He wished he knew 
how he could answer it. Marjorie expected him to 
come back to college—to her. She was certainly loyal 
to him, when all the evidence she could see must be 
dead against him. There was nothing he could do 
about that now. He was on his own. Until he fought 
his way out of his difficulties, he must write to no 
one of the old crowd; especially he must not write to 
Marjorie. But he would keep her letter. That would 
107 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


be one tie that bound him to the old life. He felt 
far from fit. He needed a shave, new linen, a new 
suit. Five days of strenuous circusing had scraped off 
most of his polish. He was a gentleman, still, but 
lacked most of the outward manifestations of gentle¬ 
ness. And he was hungry and broke, and in hiding. 

For an hour or more Cuddy remained in his brown 
study. Rony Gavin had told him to keep under cover 
and think of some way out of the dilemma in which the 
show found itself. But Cuddy could find no loophole 
of escape. If some one else on the show could dis¬ 
cover a way out, well and good. As far as he was 
concerned, his back was to the wall and he was all 
fhrough fighting—unless he might sell his red roadster 
left behind at Columbus College! 

A bugle call—the call which always meant “Get 
ready for parade”—made him spring to his feet. He 
rushed through the menagerie and big top, out through 
the dressing-room entrance and pad room, out into 
the warm sunshine of the southern spring. 

“Where’s Manson?” he demanded of a group of 
performers. 

“Here, Guv’ner,” the equestrian director answered, 
hurrying up from the horse tents. Cuddy did not 
conceal his dislike for him. 

“What do you mean by calling parade? We haven’t 
got any license for this town yet.” Cuddy was more 
worried than he realized. Bad enough to stay on the 
lot without being able to open the show, but to at¬ 
tempt a parade without a license, and have that parade 
108 




OUT OF THE MUD 


stopped, and, perhaps, some one on the show jailed 
for making such an attempt, that would be one more 
trouble that he could not stand that morning. 

“Rony Gavin told me to go ahead. Said you were 
sick. Told me he had the license in the ticket wagon ,’ 1 
Manson explained. 

“If Gavin said it, it goes,” announced Cuddy, the 
new Guv’ner of the show. 

Cuddy did the hundred yards between pad room 
and ticket wagon in ten flat. 

“What’s this about sending out the parade, Rony?” 
Cuddy burst in upon his treasurer. 

“Oh, yes, Guv’ner,” Rony replied. “I didn’t know 
where you were, it was getting late and—perhaps, if 
you don’t mind, you better sign this document as owner 
and manager of Calkins’ Circus, Guv’ner.” 

“This” was a contract between the Chatman Cham¬ 
ber of Commerce and Calkins’ Circus by which the 
circus agreed to give afternoon and evening perform¬ 
ances that day in Chatman under the auspices of the 
Chamber of Commerce. Receipts were to be divided 
equally between the circus and the Chatman Chamber 
of Commerce. But the Chamber of Commerce guar¬ 
anteed Calkins’ Circus four thousand dollars on the day, 
and the Chamber of Commerce agreed to assume all 
local expenses, including that of licenses. 

Cuddy signed it with a flourish. 

“Who in heaven’s name put that over?” exclaimed 
109 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


the rising young circus manager as he began to breathe 
again the breath of managerial life. 

"There was a special meeting of the Chatman Cham¬ 
ber of Commerce this morning,” Rony explained. 
"The Chamber of Commerce was impressed with the 
advantage of having so fine a circus as Calkins’ in 
their beautiful city. They were told something about 
our enormous receipts in other southern cities. They 
were also advised that, if proper arrangements were 
made, they could have the mile-long street pageant of 
Calkins’ Circus, etc., wind its glittering way not only 
through the main thoroughfares of the city, but also 
through the fair grounds where the Trade Exposition 
is being held. They were also told that, for a con¬ 
sideration, some of our trained animal acts would be 
given, free of charge, before the assembled hosts at 
the Trade Exposition at five o’clock this afternoon. 
Incidentally, the Chamber was sold on the possibility 
of making a nice piece of change from sharing in the 
day’s income of Calkins’ Circus, etc. After all of 
which, the Chamber, through its president, secretary 
and treasurer, as you will see, signed on the dotted line 
—just as you have done.” 

"Yes. Yes. I get all that,” exclaimed Clarence 
Cuddington Cotter, the world’s youngest circus im¬ 
presario. "I get all that. But who put it over ? Who 
framed the Chamber meeting, drew up the contract, 
and made the speech? Some one did some tall talk¬ 
ing.” 

‘ Oh, as for that,” replied Mr. Rony Gavin, circus 
no 




OUT OF THE MUD 


treasurer, “Bings Balter, the press agent, and your 
humble servant helped some. But Marion Fortescue 
made the speech. All we got to do now is to see that 
we collect our guaranty before the show pulls out to¬ 
night. You’ll notice,” continued the treasurer, “that 
clause six in the contract stipulates that half the guar¬ 
anty shall be paid at the end of the afternoon perform¬ 
ance and half at the end of the night performance.” 

“Where did you get that cash?” Cuddy demanded. 

The circus treasurer laid his hands affectionately 
upon a pile of coin and bills at one side of his ticket 
window. “I nearly forgot to call your attention to 
clause ten of the contract, Guv’ner,” he said. “Under 
clause ten the Chatman Chamber of Commerce ad¬ 
vanced us five hundred dollars as evidence of good 
faith!” 

“Good Lord!” said Cuddy as he collapsed on a con¬ 
venient camp stool near the door and waved feebly 
at the parade leaving the lot. 

Cuddy collected one thousand, five hundred dollars 
more from the Chatman Chamber of Commerce at 
the close of the afternoon performance. There wasn’t 
much money left for the Chatmanites who had boosted 
so valiantly for the circus, but the Chamber of Com¬ 
merce Committee were good sports. 

“You took a lot of people out to our Exposition 
with your parade this morning, and you’ll take a lot 
out to our show with your free animal acts this after- 
iii 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


noon. And wedl pack your tent to-night, so we’ll both 
get some money/’ Thus spoke the chairman. 

“I’m sending the elephants and ponies, Manson with 
his high-school horses, and the trained seals down to 
your trade show right now,” said Cuddy. “Put these 
acts on in front of your grand stand, with my com¬ 
pliments.” 

“Aren’t you going to send Miss Fortescue?” the 
committee demanded in one voice. Cuddy hesitated. 

“I’m afraid she’s pretty tired,” he said. 

“But she promised to come. That’s one reason we 
signed the contract. She said she’d work the ele¬ 
phants.” 

“That settles it, gentlemen. If she promised to 
come, she’ll be there without any orders from me.” 
And she was. 




XI 

THE BIG SQUEEZE 


W HILE the Calkins Circus free acts were keep¬ 
ing Cuddy’s part of the contract with the 
Chatman Chamber of Commerce at the Chat¬ 
man Fair Grounds, Cuddy was rearranging his line 
of battle on the circus lot. In response to his call, his 
staff man and his department bosses were gathered 
about him under the marquee. 

“Now that I’m Guv’ner on this show,” Cuddy an¬ 
nounced, “you’ll want to know how the new organiza¬ 
tion will be framed. Rony Gavin is promoted to be 
assistant general manager. Bings Balter will have 
charge of the front door and of all tickets. Doc Inman 
stays in charge of the side show, which will be with¬ 
out any games or any ‘cooch’ hereafter. Pop Mc¬ 
Ginnis stays in charge of canvas, Manson continues as 
equestrian director—but, Manson, whenever I’m on 
the show after this I, and not you, lead the parade.” 
Cuddy cast a questioning glance toward Manson. It 
was a test order. 

There was a tense moment. Every one present 
sensed the crisis impending. Every one knew there 
was no love lost between the two. 

ii 3 


CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


Manson glanced at Calkins as if for guidance. An¬ 
other moment passed. “All right, Guv’ner,” replied 
the master of circus ceremonies. 

“That’s about all,” continued Cuddy, “except that 
there’ll be no more grift on this show. No more 
short change. No more silver men. No more crap 
games. No more roulette. No more three-card 
monte. No more stud poker. No more shell stuff. 
This is going to be a Sunday school show. Strictly 
clean. If anybody on this show wants to argue that 
matter with me at any time, I’ll be glad to meet him, 
with or without gloves.” 

There were murmurs in the shuffling group. Most 
of the bosses were evidently anxious to be off, for the 
tearing-down hour approached. They must get ready 
to move to the next day’s town—that magnet that 
draws the circus man onward and ever onward. But 
a speech seemed to be in order. The old-timers, 
trained in the command of men and conditions, softly 
sidled toward the edge of the gathering. Speech mak¬ 
ing was out of their line. Then, the pack instinct 
dominating, they fell upon old Pop McGinnis and 
forced him to the center. “Say something, Pop,” 
they demanded. 

Pop, who faced a cyclone, a mob scene, or a water¬ 
spout without fear or favor, who feasted upon private 
conversation, shrank from the hideous ordeal of ora¬ 
tory. He spat to the right, spat to the left. He pulled 
off his old felt hat, once black, now green with the 
memories of many seasons in sun and rain. He ad- 
114 




THE BIG SQUEEZE 


vanced one old, high-laced boot. Withdrew it. Ad¬ 
vanced its mate. He cleared his throat with a rasp 
that spoiled the afternoon nap for most of the animals 
in the menagerie. Then he made his mighty effort. 

“We’re damn glad you’re Guv’ner, and we’ll stay 
with you,” he shouted. And the speech was over, 
the circus men, satisfied with so elaborate an observ¬ 
ance of ceremony, scattered to their various fields of 
endeavor. 

Cuddy caught sight of Calkins. The one-time 
owner and manager of Calkins’ Circus had remained 
modestly in the background, his fat frame supported by 
a sidepole of the marquee. Cuddy walked over to 
him. Cuddy’s fists usually doubled when he got near 
Calkins. They closed again this time. 

“You can stay on the show and help at odd jobs if 
you want to, Calkins,” he said. “We’ll settle the mat¬ 
ter of your salary later.” Then he walked to the ticket 
wagon. Rony Gavin presented him with a telegram. 
It was from Hal Hawkins, the general agent, and ad¬ 
dressed to Calkins. It said: 

“Better join me on the advance car at Dorocton, Ohio. 
Up against hot opposition from Keller Brothers and the 
Cadigan shows. They are trying to squeeze us between 
them. Bring some money.” 

“What’s this mean?” Cuddy demanded. 

“Means you better jump to Dorocton, Guv’ner.” 

“What time can I catch a train for Dorocton?” 

“At 6130, an hour from now. You change cars at 
115 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


Washington and Pittsburgh. Get there about noon 
to-morrow. Here’s your schedule.” 

“You’re some little efficiency man, Rony. From 
now on your salary is one hundred dollars per week 
instead of fifty dollars. Give me three hundred dollars 
of that cash. Wire the Draper, Empire and American 
companies for figures on a new spread of canvas, same 
size as we now have. Keep the show running until I 
get back. Don’t know when that will be, but I hope 
to join you a week from now at Coatesville. Don’t 
forget to collect that other two thousand dollars from 
the Chatman Chamber of Commerce to-night. Wire 
me one thousand dollars care of the advance car to¬ 
morrow.” And Cuddy was gone, to get his first taste 
of battle on the skirmish line held by the advance 
brigades of rival circuses. 

Cuddy located the advance car of Calkins’ Circus on 
a sidetrack not far from the railroad station at Doroc- 
ton. He had no difficulty in recognizing it. On a 
bright red background blazed the magic words: “Cal¬ 
kins’ Classical Circus, Mammoth Menagerie, Museum 
of Monstrosities and Free Horse Fair. Advance Car 
Number I.” There were no other cars in advance of 
Calkins’ Circus but the “Number I” sounded like many. 
It was good circus-advertising. 

“Pm Clarence Cuddington Cotter, owner and man¬ 
ager of the Calkins show,” he announced as soon as he 
identified Hawkins. 

“But where is Guv’ner Calkins?” Hawkins pro¬ 
tested. 

116 




THE BIG SQUEEZE 


Calkins is still on the show—as my working guest. 
Fm Guv’ner,” was Cuddy’s prompt answer. “Got any 
wires for me?” 

“There’s nothing on the car for you, Mr. Cotter.” 
Hawkins was cautious and unconvinced. 

“There’ll be one here soon. It will be from Rony 
Gavin, treasurer of the show. It will also be for one 
thousand dollars,” Cuddy advised him. “In the mean¬ 
time, as you have not been back on the show since I 
took hold of it and I’ve seen nothing of you but tele¬ 
grams, let’s get into the car-manager’s stateroom and 
have a nice friendly chat.” 

Cuddy had barely sketched the revolutionary changes 
that had taken place in the Calkins aggregation before 
Andrus, the car manager, knocked at the door and 
handed in a telegram. 

“This is for you, sir?” he asked, addressing Cuddy. 

“Yes. I’m the new owner,” Cuddy answered, tak¬ 
ing the telegram and Andrus’ hand at the same time. 
Andrus muttered something noncommittal, exchanged 
glances with Hawkins and withdrew. Cuddy read the 
telegram. 

“Let’s go over to the bank and get that one thou¬ 
sand dollars,” he said. 

As Cuddy and Hawkins descended the car steps, 
Hawkins raised one eyebrow to Andrus. Then he 
made three motions with his right hand. “This bird 
is on the square,” the sign language said. In a half 
hour Cuddy and Hawkins returned to the car. “Now 
ii 7 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


tell me all about this opposition, Hawkins,’' Cuddy 
commanded. 

“I'll tell you all I know, Guv’ner,” the general agent 
began. “My job is to route this show into good ter¬ 
ritory—where the money is. As general agent, I am 
responsible for all the men in advance of the show. 
I try to make my railroad contracts so that the show 
will get the money and keep out of the way of opposi¬ 
tion,” Hawkins continued. 

“Then why this opposition from the Keller and Cadi- 
gan shows?” Cuddy asked. 

“That’s what puzzles me,” Hawkins continued. “Us 
general agents try to find good territory without oppo¬ 
sition. 

“I routed this Calkins show into Ohio at the right 
time of year, with farmers and factory people making 
money and everything looking fine. The Keller show 
was routed through Wisconsin into the grain country 
of Minnesota and the Dakotas. The Cadigan show 
was routed through New England into Canada. Then, 
blooie! I woke up yesterday morning in the Palmer 
House, Chicago, to get a wire from Andrus that the 
Keller and Cadigan shows’ advance cars are billing 
ahead of us and going to take turns playing against 
us day and date in several towns.” 

Hawkins produced his maps. 

“Here’s the way the big squeeze works,” he con¬ 
tinued. “Our route calls for the Calkins show being 
here in Dorocton the nth; Newark, Ohio, the 12th; 
London, Ohio, the 13th; Piqua, Ohio, the 14th; Union 
118 




THE BIG SQUEEZE 


City, Indiana, the 16th (Sunday comes on the 15th 
and we don’t show on Sunday) ; Muncie, Indiana, on 
the 17th; Rushville, Indiana, on the 18th; Martins¬ 
ville, Indiana, on the 19th; Vincennes, Indiana, on the 
20th; and Mt. Vernon, Indiana, on the 21st. Work¬ 
ing west, you see. Looking for the good money.” 

“And then what happened?” Cuddy interrogated. 

“First thing I knew the Keller advance car was on 
our route billing the Keller show for Dorocton on the 
nth; London, the 12th; Union City, the 16th and 
Rushville, the 17th, all day and date with us or ahead 
of our show—see? At the same time the Cadigan 
advance car was also on the rails, ahead of our ad¬ 
vance car, billing the Cadigan show for Newark, the 
12th; Piqua, the 13th, Muncie the 14th; and Vincennes 
day and date with us on the 20th. Both the Keller and 
Cadigan advance cars are grabbing all the good loca¬ 
tions for their billing and leaving us no places worth 
anything for our paper. The Cadigan show has an 
extra brigade back of us covering our paper as fast 
as it can.” 

“But all that sort of thing costs Keller and Cadigan 
a lot of money,” Cuddy objected. 

“Sure it does, Mr. Cotter,” Hawkins admitted, try¬ 
ing to be patient with his uninitiated boss. “Sure it 
costs them money. But you see each of the other 
shows—Keller’s and Cadigan’s—will only have opposi¬ 
tion with us about half the time. We will have opposi¬ 
tion with one or the other of them almost every day. 
119 



CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


No show in the world can stand that unless it has a 
national bank or two behind it.” 

“Supposing our show is better and bigger?” Cuddy 
thought he had a bright idea. 

“The Calkins show isn’t any better or bigger than 
the Keller or Cadigan shows and even if it was their 
constant pounding away at us will get our goat sooner 
or later. That’s happened in the show business be¬ 
fore.” 

“Why do you think Keller and Cadigan are trying 
to get the Calkins show?” 

“Search me,” Hawkins answered. “That’s why I 
sent for you—Calkins, I mean.” 

“Would the fact that Goldman is away from the 
Calkin’s show have anything to do with it?” 

“But Goldman isn’t away from the Calkins show.” 

“Yes he is. I ran him and all his grifters away. 
The Calkins show is a Sunday school show now— 
absolutely clean.” Cuddy said this with pride. Haw¬ 
kins looked at him in dismay. 

“I get it now!” he finally exclaimed. “Goldman 
wired to the Keller and Cadigan shows to come on and 
break you—then take your show over. They certainly 
have worked quick. Each opposition advance car has 
billed two towns a day against us.” He pulled discon¬ 
solately at his pipe, his eyes half closed. Then a happy 
thought seized him. “You’ve got the United States 
treasury back of you, Mr. Cotter.” 

“Not any part of it,” said Cuddy. 

“Good night, then. We’re blowed,” announced the 
120 




THE BIG SQUEEZE 


general agent. “Keller and Cadigan will squeeze us 
to death before I have a chance to cancel our railroad 
contracts and change our route.” 

“Hawkins,” said Cuddy, reclining on a bundle of 
circus posters while his nostrils responded to the odors 
of flour paste coming from the steam cooker, “I’ve 
been squeezed so often during the few thrilling days 
I have been in the circus business that one squeeze 
more or less does not scare me. Suppose we call a 
council of war and see what can be done about not 
being blowed. I’d like to talk to the boys about it. I 
found it helped quite a lot—talking it over with certain 
folks back on the show.” 

“The boys will be coming in from the windows, 
banners, boards and country routes pretty soon. As 
soon as they wash up—get under the showers and 
change their clothes—I’ll have them in the dining room 
and you can go to it, Mr. Cotter.” Thus spoke Haw¬ 
kins. “But they’re a hard-boiled bunch,” he cautioned. 

Cuddy surveyed with interest his firing-line fighters, 
when they assembled at the call of their general agent. 
They met as man to man and he found them as hard- 
boiled as he had been led to expect. 

“Every man’s a union man and there’s not a booze 
fighter among them,” Andrus announced with the 
pride of a successful car manager. “Every man on the 
car’s worth his ninety dollars per month and three dol¬ 
lars per day meal allowance. There isn’t a one who 
can’t throw up his six hundred sheets a day. And 
121 





CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


scrap! You ride this car a day or so and you’ll see 
some real ring stuff.” 

They appraised him without concealment or camou¬ 
flage, did Cuddy’s advance brigade. The devil-may- 
cares grasped his hand in a deadly grip, looked into 
his eyes in a manner that would have chilled him when 
he was merely a college chap, then stood back to study 
the new boss with steady, unwinking gaze. They had 
won their spurs by fighting, and they expected Cuddy 
to do the same. If he had the stuff in him, he could 
make good with them. If he hadn’t got the guts, he’d 
have to look for a new job of bossing, for they’d 
throw him off the car. Cuddy sensed the situation 
and made it short. 

"I'm going to make it easy for you fellows to like 
me, because I can tell you that when I joined the Cal¬ 
kins show six days ago as owner, I was a simp, fresh 
from college. I didn’t know the difference between a 
ring curb and an extra guy. Two days ago I started 
to clean my show up. Before I got through with my 
single or double-handed fight, I had run all the grifters 
away from the show. I had to learn to fight as I went 
along. Calkins is working for me now—on a strictly 
Sunday school show.” 

Cuddy, watching his men closely, thought he saw 
signs of a dawning respect. He threw off his coat to 
better expose his bruised knuckles. He threw off his 
hat to throw a higher light on his battle-scarred face. 
Then, warming to his work, he said: 

"I fought back there with that show to make things 
122 




THE BIG SQUEEZE 


easier for the people on the show, and to make things 
easier for you up here in the advance. Now Mr. Haw¬ 
kins tells me Goldman and the other grifters I ran 
away from the Calkins show have framed with the 
Keller and the Cadigan shows to squeeze me to death, 
partly for revenge and partly because they think they 
can break me and so get a good show cheap. 

“You know how hard it is for you to get up paper 
in any town when the reputation of the Calkins show 
has gone ahead of you. You know the towners think 
you are just advertising a bunch of thieves—and tell 
you so. You know that lots of times the towners run 
you away from good locations just because of the 
rotten reputation of the Calkins show. 

“I’m going to change all that and do it right now. 
I’m going to show you fellows I know how to fight, 
up here as well as back with the show. First I’m 
going to square our show with the leading towners of 
this burg, then I’m going to put both the Keller and 
Cadigan shows in the hole all along the route. And 
after I’ve done that three things will happen. You’ll 
have easy picking on locations wherever you go, the 
opposition will fade away, and I’ll get into paste clothes, 
grab a brush and learn to throw up paper with the 
best of you. And I might add, at the end of two 
weeks, you will each get a bonus of one hundred dol¬ 
lars. Are you all willing to shake hands on that?” 

Long Jim Flaherty, boss billposter, polled his bill¬ 
posting huskies without passing a word. 

“We’ll shake on that, Guv’ner,” he said. Each 
123 





CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


knight of the paste brush gripped Cuddy’s hand in 
silence. 

“And you, Mr. Hawkins?” 

“Of course, Guv’ner,” the general agent replied cor¬ 
dially. 

“And you, Mr. Andrus?” 

“Certainly,” said the car manager. 

“Then watch me do some quick work,” Cuddy an¬ 
nounced, putting on his hat and coat. “I’ll be back 
here before the car leaves at seven o’clock to-night.” 

Making his way to the headquarters of the Dorocton 
Chamber of Commerce, Cuddy presented himself to 
the secretary. 

“Have you got a Better Business Bureau here?” he 
inquired. 

“A live one,” the secretary assured him. 

“Then let me tell you something,” Cuddy answered, 
whereupon he enlightened that gentleman upon the 
mysteries of circus grift and how he had cleaned up 
the Calkins show. 

“We’ve got a Sunday school show, absolutely with¬ 
out grift. Here’s our contract with the Chatman 
Chamber of Commerce to prove it. I’ve plenty of 
other documents. The Keller and Cadigan shows are 
rotten with grift. Do you want your people and the 
people of all these other towns robbed by a gang of 
dirty grifters?” Cuddy demanded in conclusion, ex¬ 
hibiting the list of “opposition stands.” 

“We do not,” the secretary replied with some heat. 
“We were stung, and a lot of other towns were stung, 
124 




THE BIG SQUEEZE 


by the Cadigan and Keller shows last season. We’ll 
be glad to back a clean show. 

‘Til telegraph to the Chamber of Commerce of every 
town on that list and I’ll telegraph to the state authori¬ 
ties at Columbus and Indianapolis. You’ll get your 
state license in both states and your local license for 
each town on your route in Ohio and Indiana—and the 
Keller and Cadigan shows won’t. How does that strike 
you, Mr. Cotter?” concluded the secretary. 

‘‘Fine!” said Cuddy. “Now let’s get those wires 
off while we’re on the subject.” 

Cuddy reached the railroad station ten minutes be¬ 
fore train time. He found his advertising crew heav¬ 
ing great bundles of circus paper into an open box 
car of an outgoing freight. 

“What’s the idea?” he demanded of Andrus, the 
car manager, who said: 

“It belongs to the Cadigan show. The Cadigan 
flying squad is coming in on the same train we go 
out on, to pick up this paper. There’s three days’ 
supply here. We told the express agent the paper 
was for us. When the Cadigan squad drops off the 
train here their paper will be miles away and going 
fast. By the time they’ve found out it’s gone we’ll be 
away, too. When they get their hands on that paper, 
if they ever do, it’ll be too late to do them any good, 
and we’ve covered all their paper in Dorocton.” 

The west-bound local unloaded the Cadigan squad 
with its paste brushes and paste buckets. As the train 
rolled west from Dorocton with the Calkins advance 

125 



CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


car attached, Long Jim Flaherty and others of the 
Calkins fighting advance crew stood on the rear plat¬ 
form and tweaked their noses at the flying squad of 
Cadigan’s show. The despoiled members of the Cadi- 
gan flying squad were shaking their fists at the depart¬ 
ing Calkins advance brigade. 

“That’ll hold those birds for a while,” said Hawkins. 
“Now, how about the advance cars of Keller and 
Cadigan ahead of us?” 

“Cover all opposition paper you find,” Cuddy or¬ 
dered. “I’ll handle the local people of importance. 
We’ll break this squeeze game within a week. In the 
meantime I must learn to be a billposter.” 

Cuddy took his first lesson in the gentle art of bill¬ 
posting on the main street of Piqua, Ohio. In blue 
overalls and paste-besprinkled shirt and hat he had 
learned to throw up an eight-sheet unaided. Now he 
was wrestling at the top of a swaying ladder, in a 
high wind, with a stubborn circus-streamer. This 
piece of three-colored type paper was twenty-eight 
inches high and twenty-eight feet long. It was tightly 
rolled and balanced on a brush, while Cuddy held hard 
to the lower end of a twenty-foot brush handle. Cuddy 
had been directed by Andrus, on the sidewalk below, 
to unroll the streamer along the paste-bedaubed board, 
smoothing and pasting it down as he went. Andrus 
was initiating his boss. 

The streamer, when fully unfolded read: “Calkins* 
Classical Circus, Mammoth Menagerie, Museum of 
126 




THE BIG SQUEEZE 


Monstrosities and Free Horse Fair. In All the World 
No Show Like This.” It was designed to be the head¬ 
line for the pictorial display of the blood-sweating be¬ 
hemoth, bicuspid bucephalus, and other attractions in 
the mammoth menagerie aforesaid. 

Cuddy had unrolled the poster to the word “Circus,” 
when an earthquake shook him from his perch. He 
slid and fell down the swaying ladder. Halfway in 
his descent his paste bucket upset—its contents delug- 
his head and shoulders. Thus discomfited, Cuddy 
landed amid the mingled arms, legs, feet, hands, heads 
and bodies of Andrus and his battling billposters who 
were valiantly entangled with other gentlemen in rough 
billposting attire. These other gentlemen Cuddy knew 
not, but he struck at one of them on general principles. 
Cuddy promptly slapped against the billboard. The un¬ 
known antagonist had struck back. 

“Come on, Guv’ner,” Andrus shouted. “The Keller 
and Cadigan advance crews are here to clean us up. 
If we don’t get away with this gang, we’ll close the 
season right now!” 

As Cuddy dashed into the fray, he saw the rest of 
his advertising crew racing for the center of the storm 
with other huskies—from the Keller and Cadigan cars. 
Paste brushes, paste buckets, rolls of gaudy circus 
bills, billposters, car managers, press agents and Cuddy 
were furiously mixed in a milling mass whence issued 
caustic criticisms of a ghastly personal nature. 

Cuddy found that the men of the advertising bri¬ 
gades were tougher than the circus “bad men.” Be- 
127 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


fore the fight had progressed to its second round, the 
sole owner and manager of Calkins’ Classical Circus 
was a badly winded human billboard. Like a silk¬ 
worm he had spun his own cocoon of four-colored 
circus-posters—lithographic illustrations of the glories 
of the circus to come. It was the acme of absurdity 
that the particular circus bill in which Cuddy thus hap¬ 
pened to in wrap himself depicted the beauty, grace 
and daring of Miss Marion Fortescue! 

By the time he had disentangled himself, Cuddy’s 
men were chasing the defeated Keller and Cadigan 
crews down the main street of Piqua with such speed 
that the police were hopelessly outdistanced. So Cuddy, 
being the only available participant, was loaded into 
the patrol wagon and taken to the police station. There 
Hawkins, who had not participated in the struggle, 
found his chief. 

“File this message to the secretary of the Chamber 
of Commerce of Dorocton, then get some one from 
the local Chamber of Commerce, or whatever they 
call it here, to let me talk to him,” commanded Cuddy, 
as he labored to remove the paper, paste, and other 
signs of his fistic endeavors. 

“Right away, Guv’ner,” Hawkins answered. “There 
are two newspaper men outside. Want to see them?” 

“Send them in,” said Cuddy, and while he awaited 
the result of his wire to Dorocton, Cuddy, skillfully 
suppressing his own name, graphically described the 
reason for the battle of the billposting brigades, ex¬ 
panding upon the virtues of the griftless Calkins cir- 
128 




THE BIG SQUEEZE 


cus and upon the vices of the grifting Keller and 
Cadigan shows. Before Cuddy had concluded his nar¬ 
rative, before he had been haled into court to answer 
to the charge of disorderly conduct, Hawkins was back 
with an answer from Dorocton. 

“Read that to the gentlemen of the press, the judge 
—and the local vigilance committee, if they have any 
thing of that sort here,” said Cuddy loudly and with 
lordly dignity. 

“Dorocton salutes you and your noble cause [the tele¬ 
gram said]. Our Better Business Bureau greets you. 
We have barred Cadigan’s circus from our city. We 
have been advised that other cities on your route have 
barred both the Keller and Cadigan shows. We are for 
clean business, which you represent. Calkins’ Circus will 
get a royal reception at Dorocton.” 

It was signed by the secretary of the Better Business 
Bureau of the Dorocton Chamber of Commerce. 

“That will hold them for a while,” said Cuddy after 
the reading had been completed. In an aside to Hawk¬ 
ins he added: “I certainly did sell that Dorocton 
Chamber of Commerce on the idea of a Sunday school 
show.” 

The advance car of Calkins’ Classical Circus rolled 
westward from Piqua, Ohio, to Union City, Indiana. 
The knights of the paste and brush were washing their 
wounds. Clarence Cuddington Cotter, sole owner and 
manager of Calkins’ Circus, was doing likewise. As 
129 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


he attended to his injuries, he sang softly a song of 
tournament and love. It was the song he sang in the 
presence of Fatty Frazier the first time he beheld Mar¬ 
ion Fortescue in her white riding habit with her team 
of tandem whites. It had to do with the days of old 
when knights were bold and young gallants rescued 
ladies fair from evil influence. 

This time it was Hawkins, the general agent, who 
interrupted Cuddy’s singing. 

“You’ll stay with us and ride the bill car for a while 
Guv’ner Cotter?” 

“Nope, can’t do it. Sorry, Hawkins. But I must 
double back to the show from Union City to-night.” 
Cuddy softly renewed his song. 

“What’s the idea, Guv’ner? Don’t you like us on 
the advance?” 

“Like you! I like every laddie-buck on the brigade,” 
said Cuddy with honest enthusiasm. “But you tell me 
the opposition has been broken.” 

“That’s right, Guv’ner. I saw the orders in the 
station agent’s office. There were wires from both 
shows—Keller’s and Cadigan’s. They’ve both run 
away from us. They’ve canceled all opposition stands. 
Keller’s show is making long jumps into the Dakota 
grain country. Cadigan’s show is heading for the mar¬ 
itime provinces of Canada, where they were headed 
for before they started this opposition fight. I never 
saw two shows licked so suddenly.” 

“Then I haven’t any excuse for staying with you,” 
said Cuddy. “I must get back on the show.” He 
130 




THE BIG SQUEEZE 


consulted a sheaf of telegrams. One was from Rony 
Gavin, “Calkins has blown the show. Look out for a 
frame-up,” it said. 

That was another wire. It was from Cuddy’s Uncle 
Ned. It said: 

“Your wire from Dawsville not satisfactory.” 

Cuddy led Hawkins into Andrus’ stateroom and shut 
all others out. 

“Say, Hawkins. Who is Marion Fortescue?” 

“You ought to know. She’s working for you, 
Guv’ner.” 

“I know who she is on the show. She’s the best 
performer and one of the finest, cleverest girls I ever 
knew.” Cuddy hesitated. “But who are her people? 
Where did she come from?” Cuddy was red from 
much talking. 

“Marion Fortescue belongs to the best people in 
the profession,” said Hawkins, the walking Who’s 
Who on Circusdom. “On her father’s side she goes 
back to the Rawtons. On her mother’s side she 
goes back to the Tickneys. There were great riders 
in both families, you know.” 

“And riders?” 

“Are the aristocrats of the circus business,” Haw¬ 
kins explained. “And speaking of aristocrats, she isn’t 
very proud of it, but Marion Fortescue is also related, 
through her mother, to the Conderbilts of New York.” 

“Thanks,” said Cuddy, patting his tie into shape. 

131 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“Want to know about any one else on the show, 
Guv’ner?” 

“No, thanks,” said Cuddy. “Hello. This Union 
City? Here’s where I catch the east-bound for Coates- 
ville and the show. Good-by, everybody. Gavin will 
wire you, Mr. Andrus, the bonus money next week. 
See that the boys get it. I’ve had a peach of a time.” 

The paste-brush gang grinned a fond farewell to 
their battling circus boss. 

“You certainly can fight,” said Andrus. “But why 
did you cover up your name in those Piqua interviews, 
Guv’ner ?” 

“I’m advertising the Calkins show, not me,” said 
Cuddy. “And then I have my reasons for being 
modest. Andrus, you know now how to use all this 
griftless circus stuff with the commercial clubs.” 

The train stopped at the Union City station. Cuddy, 
bag in hand, swung down to the station platform. 
Andrus was reminded of something. 

“Who was that thin, black-mustached bird the cop¬ 
pers pinched in Piqua just before we pulled out of 
there, Guv’ner Cotter?” 

“Oh, that was Sol Goldman. He had the grift on 
the Calkins show, you remember, before I ran him 
off. Goldman framed this Keller and Cadigan opposi¬ 
tion against us and got both those Keller and Cadigan 
advance cars back to Piqua to clean us up. I had him 
pinched and put away. He’ll be lucky if he gets out 
this season. So long, Andrus,” and Cuddy started 
through the station to catch the east-bound talain. 

132 




THE BIG SQUEEZE 


“Five minutes to spare,” he muttered, looking up at 
the station clock. He stepped up to the telegraph desk 
and sent this message to his Uncle Ned in New York: 

“Marion Fortescue is a Calkins circus performer re¬ 
lated to the Conderbilts of New York.” 

“Guess that will give him something to think about,” 
Cuddy mumbled as he plumped into his Pullman seat 
and onto the recumbent form of Slats Murphy, his 
baby-faced, flat-chested college rival. 

“Where on earth you been?” shouted Slats, sitting 
up, wide-eyed. “Frog-eyed,” thought Cuddy, for 
Murphy’s eyes bulged more than usual. 

Cuddy regarded him coldly, silently. 

“You don’t seem crazy to see your old college chum,” 
Slats complained. “And you hardly bade me good- 
by that day in New York!” 

“Are you crazy to see me?” Cuddy inquired. 

“Not as crazy as Marjorie Trent is. I’ve been 
searching for you for nights and days, on her orders. 
You’ve been rotten with Marjorie,” he added. “And 
I am her gallant knight!” 

“That’s my business,” said Cuddy. “About Mar¬ 
jorie and all that.” 

“Mine, too,” answered Slats, puffing out his apple 
cheeks. 

“How’s that?” Cuddy resisted a temptation to wring 
Slats’ neck. 

“I mean to marry her.” Slats tried to look impres¬ 
sive. 


133 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


'‘Where do I come in ?” Cuddy’s hand crept toward 
Slats’ collar. 

“If you don’t turn up—there I am.” 

“I’ll be there. Don’t fool yourself,” said Cuddy. 

“I think a lot more of her than you do or I wouldn’t 
be stalking you!” exclaimed Slats. 

“Slats, speaking as one college man to another, 
you’re a nut.” 

“And you’re a crazy fool.” 

“Maybe so. But if you tell a soul you’ve seen me 
I’ll break every bone in your body. And don’t you 
dare follow me,” declared Cuddy, backing out of the 
Pullman. 

Slats stared after him. “Good heavens, how he’s 
changed!” he whispered. “What am I going to tell 
Marjorie?” 

Cuddy, in the depths of the day coach, consulted 
an official-looking document, taken from Sol Gold¬ 
man at Piqua. For the first time he noticed across 
the top in Uncle Ned’s fine hand: 

“To have legal value this document should be recorded 
at some county seat in each state the circus visits. N.C.” 

He dropped off the train at Urbana, called at the 
county recorder’s office and said: 

“Please record this. It’s a bill of sale for Calkins’ 
Circus. I’m Cotter.” 

The clerk looked at it casually, then closely. “A 
134 




THE BIG SQUEEZE 


bill of sale for Calkins’ circus was recorded here yester¬ 
day,” he replied. 

“By whom ?” Cuddy demanded. 

The clerk consulted his records. “By Solomon 
Goldman,” he answered, “in his favor.” 




CUDDY SEES MARJORIE 


C UDDY was back in his old college town. A 
few days with a circus had made a difference in 
him. He was no longer the debonair, non¬ 
chalant Cuddy, the spritely senior of Columbus Col¬ 
lege. He no longer wore his clothes like the fashion¬ 
ably tailored man upon whom undergrads had gazed 
with envy. His once slick hair, whose fascinating 
waves had reflected the light of the campus or the 
ball room, was still wavy. Toward the top of his 
head, where once reposed a collegian’s cap, it still 
defiantly curled. But its artificial luster was gone— 
washed out by the rains of a circus lot. 

His shoes were muddy, his hands rough, his face 
burned and unshaven. Even his gait had changed. 
He no longer strolled at ease with himself and the 
world. He strode determinedly as though each time 
he put his foot down he meant to stay there until he 
should be allowed to advance. He seemed to be pos¬ 
sessed of a purpose. He gave the impression of one 
who knew what he was about and intended doing it. 
But with all his expressed determination, Cuddy was 
slinking. He was undeniably under cover. 

136 


CUDDY SEES MARJORIE 


Turning from one side street into another and care¬ 
fully avoiding the electric arcs and automobile lights, 
he walked rapidly through the outer edge of the town, 
until he approached the college campus. Then he sat 
down in the shadow of a tree to rest. Lighting a 
cigarette behind a bit of bush, he took stock of himself. 

“I certainly am an ass—a fool,” was his conclusion. 
“I take an unexpected plunge into the circus business 
and put college behind me forever. Then I let a few 
words from that ass, Slats Murphy, run me away from 
a show I should stay with and fight for, if I’m ever 
going to get anywhere. And for what? For the sake 
of seeing Marjorie whom I do not dare speak to. And 
yet—I just have to see her and I must find out what 
there is between Marjorie and Slats. Wonder what 
I can find out at the Zeta house?” 

Cuddy climbed a stile far to the east of the Zeta 
house, stepped gingerly along a wooded lane, crossed 
a weedy street and, avoiding shafts of light from 
upper study windows, flopped into the grass at the 
corner of the porch. On such an hour and on such a 
balmy evening some of his brothers would be smok¬ 
ing the pipe of peace. Two of them were. Orton 
Burch, his feet hanging over the railing, strummed on 
a banjo and talked with Bushy Thorn—about Cuddy. 

“Lot more bucking in this house than there was a 
month ago,” Burch remarked. 

“That’s because Cuddy’s gone,” Thorn rejoined. 

“Cuddy was the soul of good-heartedness, the life 
of the party,” Burch replied. “But he kept too many 
137 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


of us on the rocks of class-room ignorance and quite 
a few of us, too, near our local jail.” 

“Wonder what the Paint and Patches Club will do 
about filling his place in the David Garrick cast,” 
mooned Thorn. 

“That’s already been filled. Slats Murphy is to play 
the part assigned to Cuddy,” Burch asserted. 

“Slats Murphy!” Thorn exclaimed. “Why, Slats 
can’t act for sour apples. And as for playing opposite 
Marjorie Trent, that’s impossible!” 

“Impossible or not, Slats has been elected to Paint 
and Patches. And the Columbus College Daily says 
he’s to take the part Cuddy was to play. Saw it in 
to-day’s edition,” Burch insisted. “Wonder how much 
Marjorie Trent had to do with that.” 

“If you belonged to Slats Murphy’s fraternity and 
were over at his chapter house to-night you might be 
able to find out,” Thorn replied. 

“What do you mean?” Burch demanded. 

“The Rho Epsilons are having their formal party at 
their house to-night. Slats is a Rho Epsilon, you 
know. And I heard at Old Dormitory yesterday that 
Slats is taking Marjorie. If you’ll listen you can hear 
the dulcet strains of Kerry Kuelgen’s Jazzers now.” 

Cuddy could hear them well. There’s more than 
one reward for having one’s ear to the ground. He 
had been wondering between the stabs administered 
by his Zeta friends where the Jazzers were jazzing and 
why. His interest promptly transferred itself from 
the Zeta to the Rho Epsilon house. As he backed 
138 




CUDDY SEES MARJORIE 


away, crab fashion, in the darkness, he heard his erst¬ 
while mates softly singing one of his old-time favo¬ 
rites : 

“When the shades of night have gathered round 
String your guitar and let us sound 
The praises of Columbus fine 
And of our Zeta, yours and mine. 

“When pipes are glowing in old porch chairs 
Tune up and plunk your chapter airs. 

For the absent ones for whom we pine 
And for our Zeta, yours and mine.” 

Cuddy gained the shelter of the lot-line hedge. His 
heart was heavier than his feet. 

“Not a living thing around this house cares whether 
Fm alive or dead,” he muttered bitterly. “Not a liv¬ 
ing thing.” 

Something came creeping out of the dark to meet 
him. Something that clung as close to the ground 
as he did. Something that made no sound, that gave 
no warning. His first knowledge of this new pres¬ 
ence was the chill of a palpitating muzzle thrust into 
his half-open fist, the warmth of a wriggling body 
snuggling up to his. The ecstatic in-breathing and 
exhaling of a delirious dog. It was Sniggs, chapter 
house mascot, the brown and white unpedigreed, Eng¬ 
lish bull terrier which Cuddy loved as he loved his 
life. 

Cuddy embraced him. 

“How did you get out, old-timer?” he whispered. 
139 





CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“Sneaked up on me just like the true terrier, didn’t 
you? I’d have caught that white of your breast if 
you hadn’t come up from behind. You old rascal!” 

Sniggs wriggled closer into Cuddy’s embrace, vainly 
endeavoring to make two bodies occupy the same space 
at the same time. He nosed Cuddy from head to feet. 
He squirmed and twisted and rolled around in Cuddy’s 
arms in an abandon of happiness. He fondled Cuddy’s 
face with a hot and fervid tongue. 

“You haven’t thrown me down. You haven’t crossed 
me off your list. You haven’t forgotten the gorgeous 
times we all had together here, have you, Sniggs?” 

The dog licked more frantically and wriggled as if 
he would disjoint his muscular body. He writhed 
and rolled, then clung closer to Cuddy and whispered 
dear dog nothings in Cuddy’s quickened ear. Cuddy 
folded him to his heart. 

“I’ve one friend who’s always a friend,” he mut¬ 
tered. “Glad you can’t see the tears in my eyes, old- 
timer. ’Fraid you’d lose your respect for me for being 
so soft. But God! you feel good to me. Guess you 
don’t suspect where I’ve been or what I’m going 
through, Sniggs. Got a big job on my hands now, 
old pal. Trying to make up for a lot of chances I’ve 
thrown away. Funny game I’m playing, too. Even 
you wouldn’t understand it if I tried to tell you about 
it. You’d play it out, though, just as I’m going to. 
You’re a bull terrier. That’s what I’m going to be.” 

Sniggs wriggled out of Cuddy’s arms, frolicked 
away, cut curlicues with his feet, caught his stubby 
140 




CUDDY SEES MARJORIE 


tail in his jaws, spun madly about like a canine pin- 
wheel, flattened himself on the ground a yard from 
Cuddy, growled, made off a few feet, came back and 
whined enticingly. 

“Can’t do it to-night, Sniggs,” Cuddy whispered. 
“No play for us now. That’s got to wait until some 
other time. No play for me at all just now. No play 
except to play the big game that I don’t know much 
about. But you did me a royal kindness when you 
came out here to hunt me up to-night. I’ll not forget 
it. And don’t you forget it, either. Small chance 
that you will, though. You never forget anything, 
especially a friend.” 

Sniggs cuddled closely to Cuddy (champion cuddler 
of Columbus college). Cuddy folded him in a last 
embrace. 

“Enough of this,” he finally said. “You know I 
love you, Sniggs, and I know you love me. Some 
time when the war I’m serving in is over and I’m 
crowned with victory of whatever the gods have in 
store for me, I’m coming back to get you. Until 
then, old-timer, it’s only your duty and mine. If I 
was the kind of fellow most of my old friends around 
here seem to think I am, I’d bundle you up and take 
you with me. But I can’t do that honorably. Not 
now. You belong to the other fellows as much as you 
do to me. So I’m going my way and you’re going 
yours.” 

Sniggs sniffed softly in Cuddy’s neck. Sniggs’ paws 
Cuddy’s shoulders. Cuddy was kneeling on 

141 


were on 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


the grass, his arms around the dog’s pulsing body. 
Gently Cuddy disengaged himself from his friend’s 
embrace. Gently he placed Sniggs’ paws upon the 
ground, and whispered in Sniggs’ cocked ear: “You 
must go back now.” Sniggs protested. “Yes, you 
must,” Cuddy insisted. “A duty’s a duty with dog and 
man. Here we part, old-timer, but not forever. Put 
that little sentiment in your memory book. You go 
your way, back to the chapter house. I go my way, 
back to my circus. You don’t know what a circus is, 
but you may some day. Until that time, or until I see 
you again, you be a good doggie, Sniggs. Will you ?” 

Sniggs wriggled willing assent. 

“All right, then, back you go. Good-night and 
good-by, my boy.” For a moment Cuddy laid his 
cheek to the cheek of his canine pal. Then he said, 
“Now what must be, must be. Go to the house, 
Sniggs.” 

Obediently Sniggs disappeared in the deeper shadow 
of the chapter house. Cuddy arose, lighted a ciga¬ 
rette and set off for the formal spring party of the Rho- 
Epsilons. 

Cuddy remembered that just outside the window of 
the Rho Epsilon ballroom stood a giant pine tree. 

He worked his way to the rear of the house, climbed 
the fence, kept within the shadow of the giant pine 
as he crept across the lawn, swiftly shinned up the 
rosiny trunk and breathlessly straddled the lower limbs 
of his risky lookout. 


142 




CUDDY SEES MARJORIE 


He scrambled to a higher limb, so that no telltale 
feet might reveal his hiding place. 

The minutes passed and there was no hue and cry. 
Cuddy was safe for the time being. Groups of girls 
and boys remained chatting on the Rho Epsilon porch. 
Within the enemy house Kerry Kuelgen’s Jazzers con¬ 
tinued to jazz. Fate was, at least temporarily, kind 
to him. Clinging to his insecure perch, Cuddy parted 
the green branches and peered through the open win¬ 
dow into the ballroom. 

There was Sue Harris in her peacock blue char- 
meuse, dancing with Perry Givens, fluffy-haired Mazie 
Frost one-stepping with Carl Mitchell, willowy Corinne 
Plaintain floating over the floor with John Richards. 
There were a dozen other girls to whom he had made 
college love before Marjorie came into his life and he 
had discarded his squab affairs for his one real pas¬ 
sion. But he could not see Marjorie, or Slats. He 
leaned further toward the window, searching the room 
for the thing he didn't want to see. 

Then Marjorie floated toward him, tall, dark, sinu¬ 
ous, serene, her rounded arms in bewitching color con¬ 
trast to her flame-colored georgette. She carried a 
black ostrich fan—the one Cuddy had given her. She 
wore an onyx and platinum chain and earrings that 
dropped to the soft curve in her neck. 

She was dancing with the detestable, flat-chested, 
gopher-cheeked, slab-sided Slats. Cuddy bit deeply 
into his under lip. It seemed to him that Marjorie and 
Slats looked unreasonably happy. Slats said some- 
143 




CUBBY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


thing to Marjorie. She smiled at him and tapped him 
with her fan. Marjorie knew she had pretty teeth and 
an unequaled olive complexion. Cuddy wondered 
whether Marjorie might have sensed his presence and 
was rubbing it in. She was capable of it, he thought. 
And she was much to be desired. Cuddy rubbed one 
sticky hand over a furrowed forehead. What could 
he do about it ? 

The Kerry Kuelgen Jazzers ceased to jazz. The 
dancers flocked to the porch or to various cozy corners. 
Cuddy almost fell out of his tree when Marjorie and 
Slats seated themselves in the open window. Slats 
lighted a cigarette. Marjorie gently fanned herself. 
She was torturingly close to Slats. She was tantaliz- 
ingly close to Cuddy. He could almost reach out and 
touch her. 

“Nifty party, eh, Marjorie?” said Slats. 

“Adorable!” exclaimed Marjorie. 

“Say that again, just that way, and look straight at 
me,” prompted Slats. 

“Adorable, and so are your flowers,” Marjorie said. 
She smiled again. 

Cuddy dug one clinging hand into the pine-tree bark. 
It came away smeared with rosin. “If I could only 
rub that into Murphy’s face,” he mumbled. 

“Marjorie, ” said Slats, “ I hate to indulge in 
axioms, “but you look particularly beautiful to-night.” 

“That’s because I’m so happy,” she responded. 

Cuddy sank his teeth deeper into his lower lip. He 
had to do something to keep from crying out loud. 

144 




CUDDY SEES MARJORIE 


“Then you don’t miss Cuddy?” Slats inquired. 
Cuddy detected a sneer in Murphy’s smile. He won¬ 
dered whether he should not launch himself from his 
pine-tree bough and with one well aimed leap land upon 
Slats and break that beast’s red neck. Marjorie’s reply 
banished this thought. 

“I miss no one who has no respect for himself or 
his friends,” she said. 

“You mean—?” 

“That Cuddy forfeited his right to my regard when 
he left us all as he did. All the campus knows our en¬ 
gagement was announced the day before he disap¬ 
peared, and I’ve had just one unexplanatory letter from 
him. One cannot keep such things from college friends. 
I’m not accustomed to total lack of consideration.” 
She pouted divinely. Cuddy had brought her out of 
the pouts before. If he could only talk to her now. 

Slats intervened with a leading question. 

“If you had heard nothing more from him and held 
your present opinion of him, why did you send me out 
on that wild-goose chase after him? Talk about try¬ 
ing to find a needle in a haystack!” 

Marjorie hesitated. 

“I wanted to give him one more chance before I cut 
him out of my life. I wanted to be fair. That was 
sporting, wasn’t it? I thought if you found him and 
appealed to his sense of sportsmanship—I used to think 
he had such a sense—he might do something to clear 
up the situation for both of us.” 

Slats toyed with his cigarette thoughtfully. 

145 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“Marjorie,” he said, “supposing—I—did—find— 
Cuddy?” 

Marjorie was on her feet instantly. 

“Oh, what do you mean?” she demanded eagerly. 

Cuddy watched Slats with burning eyes. Was the 
beast going to break his promise! Would he dare! 
Evidently Slats was working himself up to some mo¬ 
mentous decision. 

“Well—Marjorie. I—think — I — should — tell — 
you—” 

Sallie Rogers rushed up to the couple. Sallie was 
one of the college irrepressibles. She was the official 
enthusiast of the institution. She was Columbus’ 
greatest long-distance gurgler. Marjorie and Slats 
frowned upon her, but Sallie didn’t know it. 

“Oh, Marjorie!” she gurgled. “You’ve just got to 
come over to the other side of the ballroom this very 
minute! That new girl—the one that’s to enter next 
year from Richland Villa—is here, and you know how 
we’re rushing her and how the Deltas are after her! 
We need every star member we have to-night to work 
on her.” 

“Sallie, you are interrupting us,” said Marjorie se¬ 
verely. “I can’t come now. By and by.” 

“Oh, Marjorie! you must,” Sallie continued. “The 
girls have sent me after you especially. You’re the 
stunningest, most impressive member we have. We’ve 
got to have your assistance this very minute.” 

Marjorie tapped her foot impatiently. Slats puffed 
angrily. Sallie kept on gurgling. 

146 




CUDDY SEES MARJORIE 


“Marjorie, I won’t move from this spot until you 
come along! You know what a catch this Richland 
Villa girl will be. I forget her name, but her people 
are in all the best circles and she has heaps of money, 
and two cousins who’ll enter two years from now. If 
the Deltas get her, it’ll be the hardest blow our sorority 
has had in years and years. You ought to hear who 
she knows in New York!” 

Marjorie rose resignedly. 

“If I had your endurance, Sallie,” she remarked. 
Then to Slats: “Don’t you dare move from this win¬ 
dow until I get back. I’ll not be gone a moment.” 
Towed by Sallie Rogers, Marjorie Trent moved ma¬ 
jestically across the ballroom floor. 

Something dropped at Slats Murphy’s feet. He 
picked it up. It was a bit of white paper folded around 
a coin. Slats unfolded the paper. Scrawled in pen¬ 
cil on the torn bit of paper were the words: 

“Do you want to be beaten to death?” 

Slats turned pale. His frog eyes hung upon his 
apple cheeks. 

From out of the dark, in a sepulchral voice, came 
the command: 

“If the answer is ‘no’ shake your head. If the an¬ 
swer is ‘yes’ nod it. If you answer ‘yes’ I’ll beat you 
to death.” 

Slats slowly but positively shook his heavily shocked 
head. 

Marjorie returned to her window seat. “Now what 
were you about to tell me?” she asked Slats, leaning 
147 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


toward him earnestly. “You said something about 
suppose you did find Cuddy.” 

Slats fingered his lightless cigarette, looked sadly at 
Marjorie, glanced hastily into the outer darkness, and 
replied: 

'‘What’s the use of talking about something that 
never happened? Come on, there’s the next dance.” 

Amid the clamor of the Kuelgen Jazzers Marjorie 
and Slats mingled with the dancers at the Rho Epsilon 
fraternity formal. Cuddy slid down the pine-tree 
trunk, acquiring more rosin on the way, and made his 
stealthy and undetected escape into the dismal night. 

“Looks as if I were playing a pretty lone hand,” 
he said to himself as he eluded a pair of strolling 
lovers and started on his suburban circuit for the 
garage where reposed his good red roadster. 

“If there’s one old friend in this town that I know 
I can depend upon it’s Mike, the motor magician,” he 
decided. “He’s kept many a secret for me in the old 
days. He can keep one important one now—the secret 
of my presence. Wonder where I can find a discreetly 
secluded pay station.” 

He slid into a wee corner-grocery, disappeared in a 
telephone booth and called up the Constant Service 
Garage. A familiar voice answered. 

“Mike,” said Cuddy, “you’ll know who this is with¬ 
out my telling you, so there’s no use in swearing you 
to secrecy before I reveal my identity. But mum’s the 
word. Do you get me?” 

148 




CUDDY SEES MARJORIE 


“Oi get ye,” was Mike’s reply. “Phwat’s doin’?” 

“No one but you knows I’m in town and no one but 
you is going to know if you keep your trap closed. 
How about it?” 

“Right wid ye,” was Mike’s prompt reply. “Phwat’s 
ye wantin’?” 

“I want you to bring my red roadster out to the 
corner of Mercie and Grampus streets and wait for me 
under the big maple there, in the dark,” was Cuddy’s 
order. 

“Sorrah th’ day, me friend,” wailed Mike, “but th’ 
night man got on a dhrunk night ’for lasht, left th’ 
door unlocked, an’ whin he got back t’ th’ garage there 
was three cars missin’. Wan of thim was yours.” 

“Mike, stop your kidding,” Cuddy demanded. 

“Oh, sor, would that it was kiddin’ Oi am, but it is 
no kid. High an’ low we are thrying t’ find th’ cars 
with all th’ insurance sharps an’ th’ autymobile clubs 
alookin’, but nary a one do we find so far. Oi’m 
thinkin’ they are what ye call greatly convarted by this 
toime an’ we’ll see no more o’ thim.” 

Cuddy was conscious of a bit of dew upon his brow. 
He hadn’t thought of losing his red roadster. It had 
meant a certain freedom of movement. It also meant, 
in a most desperate pinch, some life-saving cash. He 
gasped a moment then said: 

“All right, Mike. That’s that. Sorry you weren’t 
kidding me, that’s all.” 

“An’ phwat else can Oi do for ye, sor ?” from Mike. 

149 





CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“Looks like you’d done a lot already,” from Cuddy. 
“There’s one thing you’ll have to do, however. Get 
some car out of the garage and meet me where I told 
you a minute ago. I’m certainly going from here.” 

“Oi’ll be there at wance,” said Mike as he hung up. 

“Make it a closed car,” were Cuddy’s last words. 
He slid out of the store and into the dark side of the 
back street. A few minutes later he was in the car 
with Mike. They clasped hands fraternally. 

“In trouble, Mishter Cuddy?” he asked. 

“Well, more or less,” Cuddy admitted. 

“Bootlegging’s mighty risky,” suggested Mike. 

“It’s not as bad as that—quite,” Cuddy admitted. 
“But I got to get to Pentonville by motor car and no 
one must know I’ve been here. Will you still play 
the game, Mike?” he continued. 

“Ye know it,” said Mike. “But th’ Missus an’ th’ 
kids would give their eyes to know that th’ Mishter 
Cuddy who helped us through our sick spell had been 
among thim thish night.” 

“I’ll see them some other time,” Cuddy answered. 
“Hit her up, Mike.” 

They rolled out of town, past the railroad crossing 
where only six weeks before Cuddy and his student 
pals had stolen one monkey cage and crossed their fu¬ 
tile fists with a fighting circus gang. Cuddy smiled 
grimly when he recalled that night’s happy college- 
prank—and then he almost plunged his head through 
the glass side of the sedan. For as the car dashed 
under a swinging arc light he got a flash of pictorial 
150 




CUDDY SEES MARJORIE 


circus bills, a streamer reading “Calkins’ Circus” and 
a circus date sheet shouting: 

CALKINS’ CIRCUS 
WILL EXHIBIT HERE! 
POSITIVELY ONE DAY ONLY! 

TWO PERFORMANCES 
Afternoon and Night 

Cuddy’s circus was coming to the seat of Columbus 
College! 

“Why didn’t I warn Hawkins to stay out of this 
town,” moaned Cuddy. “Positively one day only is 
just one day too much for me. I must catch Hawkins 
by wire to tell him to switch his route. If I was out 
of luck before, I wonder what I’ll be two weeks from 
to-day when I reach here with the show. I’ve tried so 
hard to keep under cover until I could get going!” 

He buried his face in his hands. 

“And I got my fraternity fellows to promise they’d 
clean up the very next circus gang that came to Colum¬ 
bus College,” he moaned. “What won’t they do to 
Calkins’ Circus?” 

The car halted at Pentonville. Cuddy knew that in 
an hour he could catch a night train bound circusward. 
He shook hands with Mike. 

“You’re the good pal, Mike,” he said. “As soon as 
I can, I’ll write you and then you can tell the Missus 
and the kids that you saw me, but until then you’ll tell 
no one. Got your word for it?” 

151 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“In truth, ye have,” said Mike. They shook hands 
again. “An’ Oi’m hopin’ Oi’ll be seein’ you soon.” 
“Maybe sooner than you think,” faltered Cuddy. 
Mike and his car sped toward Columbus College. 
Cuddy sat down in lonesome silence on the edge of 
the deserted station platform. 




XIII 

MANSON AND MARION 


“ T) OSSESSION of a circus as of other property 
is nine points of the law. As long as you stay 
on this show and assert your claim to proprie¬ 
torship, backed up by exhibition of your original bill 
of sale, just so long are your chances good that you 
can put over your claim and maintain possession. But 
there is, of course, always the other chance that Sol 
Goldman will call upon the courts to oust you in hia 
favor. If that happens—you’ll be out of luck. A 
long legal fight costs money.” 

Thus spoke Rony Gavin, assistant manager of Cal¬ 
kins’ Classical Circus, Mammoth Menagerie, Museum 
of Monstrosities and Free Horse Fair. Rony was 
trying to iron out the lines in Cuddy’s forehead. 
Cuddy had come back to his circus after his hurried 
trip to his advertising brigade, during which he had 
demonstrated genius for generalship in the face of 
fierce opposition. 

Cuddy had said nothing to Rony or any one else 
connected with the circus about his nighttime pilgrim¬ 
age to Columbus College. That was his secret, to be 
shared with no one. But the other secret, that Gold¬ 
man had recorded a bogus bill of sale in order to get 
153 


CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


fraudulent possession of Calkins’ Circus, Cuddy was 
willing to share with Rony. For Rony was Cuddy’s 
right-hand man with much circus experience to guide 
him. 

“I suppose you and I, Rony, will have to fight this 
thing out alone,” Cuddy said. 

“Yep. Don’t do to let any one else on the show 
know that Goldman has put one over on you again,” 
Rony agreed. “We just got to sit tight and watch the 
cards as they fall on the table, knowing that at least 
one trick is held by Goldman or Calkins.” 

“Why Calkins?” 

“Of course Calkins is back of Goldman in this 
latest move. And I’m not knocking but—Manson was 
Calkins’ right bower.” 

“I didn’t give Calkins credit for so much resource. 

“He’s a natural-born crook with a lot of special¬ 
ized training. And he had some good understudies.” 

“You think we can beat him out eventually?” 

“Absolutely, if you stay with the show and don’t 
lose your nerve. And don’t let Manson get your goat— 
about Marion.” 

“I’m on,” Cuddy declared. Then his brow clouded 
again. “Has Hawkins sent us the route for the next 
two weeks?” he asked. 

“Just got it this morning,” Rony answered, fishing 
a bundle of papers out of his pocket. “Hawkins was 
slowed up some in making his railroad contracts by 
that hot opposition fight with the Keller and Cadigan 
shows. Here’s the route.” 

154 




MANSON AND MARION 


Cuddy glanced at it hastily. His eyes had not de¬ 
ceived him in his night’s ride out of Columbus Col¬ 
lege. Calkins’ Circus—Cuddy Cotter, now sole owner 
and proprietor—was to play in his college town thir¬ 
teen days hence. Cuddy pointed an unsteady finger 
at the dangerous day. 

'‘That date, there,” he faltered, “I happen to know, 
is a college town. Are college towns any good for 
circuses?” 

“Some of them are, if college is in session. That 
town you refer to there is where Columbus College is 
located. They have four thousand students in that 
school They’ll be a little hard up just now ’cause the 
school year is about over, but students nearly always 
fall foi a circus. Then the town’s got about twelve 
thousand regular population, there’s six factories there 
with nine hundred people on their pay rolls. Most 
factory hands are good showgoers. The place is sur¬ 
rounded by good farming country. Land is worth 
about three hundred dollars an acre. Corn is all in. 
Oats coming on fine. Bank deposits better than last 
season. Railroad business, in and out, forty per cent 
ahead of last season. Yes,” concluded Rony judicially, 
“I’d say that that Columbus College stand would be a 
pretty good one for Calkins’ show.” 

“Rony,” exclaimed Cuddy in admiration, “where 
on earth did you get all that information?” 

“What information?” Rony demanded. 

“Why, that you just gave me about Columbus Col¬ 
lege and the town and all that!” 

155 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“Oh, that’s just routine stuff. Every showman who 
has anything to do about routing a show—the show, 
you know, should be routed from the ticket wagon and 
not from the general agent’s head—knows all about 
such things from habit. Any boob—I beg your par¬ 
don, Guv’ner Cotter—I don’t mean it in disrespect, 
but there is an old saying in the circus business that 
any boob can run a show; it’s the wise one who knows 
where to put it—where to find the money.” 

“Never thought of that,” said Cuddy. 

“What I mean is,” continued Rony, “that a circus 
owner can hire good men to run his show. You get 
good department bosses who respect you and who know 
you know what is going on, and the show will run 
itself. And there’s always a good man on the show 
ready to step in and take the place of a boss who thinks 
the show can’t get along without him. But the im¬ 
portant trick of the whole circus business is to know 
where to put your show on the map every day for a 
hundred and fifty to two hundred days in the year— 
and change your location every day. Get me?” 

“But how do you know where to put it?” Cuddy 
queried. 

“There’s lots of ways of finding out,” Rony assured 
him. “Every experienced and successful showman 
knows the show history of almost every town of from 
five thousand, up. Lots of towns are known to be good 
towns in certain months and bad in others. Lots of 
other towns are known to be poor show towns—folks 
aren’t circus crazy, you know. Lots of other towns are 

156 




MANSON AND MARION 


closed towns. Won’t let any shows in because other 
shows have grifted them so hard. That’s why the clean 
shows are gradually running the crooked shows out 
of the business.” 

“You think I’m right in trying to clean up this 
Calkins show, now that I own it?” 

“You certainly are,” Rony assured him. “The 
biggest circuses in the world, the best money-makers, 
made it all on the square. They got their reputation 
and their size by not gyping the public out of a cent. 
But they couldn’t have gotten anywhere in the show 
business without knowing where to find a market for 
their wares. You see a showman has to sell his prod¬ 
uct—amusement—where and when people want to buy 
it.” 

“I think I’m beginning to see,” said Cuddy. 

“Well, once you know all about the show history 
of each of the towns in the country—and you learn 
most of that from experience or hearsay—then you 
have to know whether there’s enough sidetrack in each 
town to spot your show train while you’re there and 
whether the railroad will haul you into that town at 
all or not. Then you must know whether there’s a 
lot big enough to get your show up on, and whether 
you can get to that lot without too much trouble, and 
whether it is apt to be too soft in wet weather, and all 
that sort of thing. Some managers and some general 
agents keep a card index of all such information. An¬ 
other important thing to know is when a town was 
last showed—whether it’s a fresh town or one that’s 
157 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


been showed to death. Then of course you have to stay 
away from fairs and try to play towns on certain cele¬ 
bration days. Bunker Hill Day is a good day in 
Boston. Dominion Day is a good day in lots of 
Canadian towns. In other Canadian towns it isn’t 
worth a cent. It’s rotten.” 

“My, you have to know a lot, don’t you?” 

“About territory,” continued Rony. “Have to know 
a lot about territory in selling millinery or hoisting 
engines. It’s all part of the selling game. You take 
a good piece of merchandise of any kind, advertise it 
strong enough to create demand, then try to unload 
your merchandise where the folks are most apt to buy 
—and when they are feeling good financially. We get 
a lot of our routing dope from banking, commercial 
and railroad reports.” 

“Think I’ll ever learn all that, Rony?” 

“Sure, Mr. Cotter. Soon as you forget some of 
your college stuff. But keep your eye on your eques¬ 
trian director—Montrose Manson.” 

“But speaking of college,” Cuddy returned to the 
subject uppermost in his mind. “You think that 
Columbus College stand will be all right?” 

“Why not?” Rony eyed him narrowly. 

“When I was in my college once the fellows roughed 
up a circus one night,” Cuddy answered with attempted 
indifference. 

“Students aren’t hard to handle if you just let them 
have their head a little,” Rony announced. “I believe 
there was a sort of a clem with a circus at Columbus 
158 




MANSON AND MARION 


College a little while ago. Some trouble down at the 
loading runs. But it didn’t amount to much.” 

“No chance for us to get Hawkins to cancel the 
Columbus College stand and play some other stand in 
its place?” 

“I wouldn’t try that if I were you. Hawkins has 
had enough trouble with routing of late. Let him 
alone. We’ll get through that college town all right.” 

“Somehow I have a hunch there’ll be trouble there,” 
said Cuddy. 

“You mustn’t get superstitious just because you’re 
a showman,” Rony admonished him. 

“Maybe so,” said Cuddy. But he failed to brighten. 
He became gloomier as the days went by. Marion 
Fortescue reproached him for this the day before the 
dreaded college stand was reached. 

“Please pardon me, Mr. Cotter,” she said as they 
stood at the dressing-room entrance during the after¬ 
noon performance, “but our dressing room had a ses¬ 
sion about you after parade this morning, and we can’t 
help wondering what’s worrying you.” 

“There’s nothing worrying me,” Cuddy answered 
briskly. “Business is good, show’s running smooth, 
I’m getting good cooperation from every one on the 
show. Why should I worry?” 

“That’s what we all agreed this morning,” Marion 
continued. “But you see, we’ve all grown to like you 
a lot, Mr. Cotter. You’re making this show a nice, 
clean, family show—the kind of a show we like to 
work for. If we didn’t feel that way about the show 
159 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


and about you, I wouldn’t be able to speak to you as I 
am. But we know there’s something on your mind— 
we can’t guess what bothers you, because you have 
proved that you have the making of a showman—and 
we want you to know that we stand ready to help you 
any time you want help. That’s all.” 

“There’s absolutely nothing on my mind but my 
hair,” Cuddy assured her. 

Marion shook her head. 

“Even you can’t fool a woman,” she replied as she 
tripped into the arena for her wire act. 

“Wise little person,” thought Cuddy. “Does she 
get her wisdom from walking the wire, flying on the 
trapeze, riding a high-school horse, doing a butterfly 
act or bossing the big elephants ? I give it up. She cer¬ 
tainly has my number.” 

He drifted back into the pad room where the ring 
stock stood in readiness for its various bits on the circus 
program. Montrose Manson, equestrian director, was 
superintending the wrapping of a horse’s lame leg. 
Manson, Cuddy felt, was his only enemy on the show. 

“Manson, got a little time to spare?” Cuddy asked. 

Manson listened to the band music an instant. “Four 
minutes before the next whistle,” he answered gruffly. 

“Then come out here back of the pad room, I want 
to have a word with you,” Cuddy ordered. The two 
raised the side wall and stepped out face to face in the 
sun, Manson with an ugly smile. 

“Manson,” Cuddy began, “I’ve heard a lot of talk 
around the show about some claim you have on Marion 
160 



MANSON AND MARION 


Fortescue. Just what is it?” He could not help think¬ 
ing, “What an ill-favored chap this Manson is.” 

“I broke her into the business when she was a kid. 
I’ve taught her all she knows. If there was an appren¬ 
tice law in this country, I’d make a lot of money out 
of her,” Manson mumbled. 

“As there isn’t any apprentice law,” Cuddy reminded 
him, “please tell me just what claim you have on her.” 

“I claim that I made her what she is to-day. She 
owes everything to me and she knows it. I never gave 
her a wrong steer yet. Is that enough?” The eques¬ 
trian director was not a pleasant person. 

“Not quite. Where did you get her from? What 
about her people ? Where did she come from ?” Cuddy 
just had to find out. 

“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Cotter, that’s for her to 
answer. I might tell you, though, that she’ll stick to 
me.” He looked steadily and defiantly at Cuddy. 

“I see no objection to that,” Cuddy replied. “Thanks, 
Manson.” The equestrian director dived under the 
side wall. In a moment Cuddy heard him whistle for 
the next act. 

“The circus is a big family all right, but I guess 
there are some slants to its family affairs Pd better 
keep out of,” he concluded. Then he set out to solve 
his morrow’s problem. 

The hours between the five o’clock supper and the 
seven o’clock preparation for the evening performance 
are the hours for the circus people’s rest and recreation. 
161 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


These take various forms. The women who have 
washed their wardrobe in the morning usually iron it 
after supper in the evening. The male performers 
who consider themselves letter-perfect usually stage an 
impromptu ball game. Some of the more studious in¬ 
dulge in chess or checkers under the trees back of the 
big top. Amateur acrobatic quartettes trifle with those 
harmonies known as barber-shop chords. The Arabs 
sing to the accompaniment of Japanese-operated uku¬ 
leles. The iron-jawed man indicts sentimental epistles 
from the top of a property box out in the circus “back¬ 
yard”—that canvas inclosure which runs from “back¬ 
door,” or dressing room entrance, to and around the 
pad room and the men’s and women’s dressing rooms. 
Inside the big top the rings and hippodrome track are 
filled with human and animal artists practicing on a 
new feature for some future performance. The older 
men frequently sit on the reserved seats and smoke 
the pipe of peace. Jules Turner, veteran clown, was 
thus meditatively engaged when Cuddy encountered 
him. Next to Marion and Rony, Cuddy found most 
consolation in the company of Jules. 

“Jules,” he said, “I’ve got a queer notion in my head 
and I’d like to get your reaction on it.” 

“How shall we proceed, Mr. Cotter?” the clown 
answered. “Do you want me to examine you phreno- 
logically? Or shall I smite your cranium in slapstick 
farce, or slam that clever head into the sawdust in 
genuine knockabout comedy? Or what would you?” 

“I don’t know which prescription to take,” Cuddy 
162 




MANSON AND MARION 


acknowledged. “It’s this way. For various reasons 
I should like to be on my show and yet not of it during 
to-morrow’s stand. Meaning that I should like to drop 
out of my role as manager to-morrow and be one of 
the company but without identity.” 

“A manager incognito,” said Jules. 

“Something like that,” said Cuddy. “I want to be 
on the show but I don’t want any one outside to know 
that I am here. How can I arrange that?” 

The clown smoked silently for a while. A young 
Arab just in from Aden was throwing cartwheels while 
his trainer ran beside him and held him by a safety 
belt around the waist. Four young girls, in gingham 
rompers, just learning to fly, were “muscleing up” on 
the Roman rings hung temporarily to quarter poles. 
Another girl, in her first season as a performer, was 
practicing a new feat on the swinging ladder. Riders 
were rehearsing a new finish horse in the center ring, 
testing him out with “jump ups” from the ground. 
Chandelier Whitey was doing a little testing of his own 
—getting his lights ready for the coming performance. 

“You do not want the towners in to-morrow’s stand 
to know who or what you are?” Jules resumed. 

“That’s just it,” said Cuddy, brightening. 

“Do you know what is the most complete disguise 
around the show?” 

“I’m afraid I don’t.” 

“Clown white,” said Jules. 

“You mean the white paint you put on your face?” 

163 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“Yes. I can make you up so your best friend won’t 
know you.” 

“Will you do it—to-morrow?” 

“Will you play your part?” 

“Faithfully.” 

“You know, Mr. Cotter, I consider clowning an art 
—almost a lost art, but an art.” 

“I shall so regard it. But I must remain a clown 
from dawn until the show is off the lot,” Cuddy told 
him, “if I am to accomplish the purpose I have in 
view.” 

“You are giving the orders around this show, Mr. 
Cotter.” 

“All right, to-morrow no one shall know anything 
about a Clarence Cuddington Cotter, no one shall recog¬ 
nize that name if he hears it, no one shall admit he 
ever heard of such a person.” 

“And you will be a circus clown?” 

“What is a good name for a clown, Jules?” 

“We shall call you ‘Pierrot.’ ” 

“Good,” declared Cuddy. 

“And you shall act with me!” exclaimed Jules with 
rising enthusiasm. “I shall be the posture marker. I 
shall cue you into the comedy business. It will be 
glorious! These boys—these punks—who come to us 
to be made into clowns! What trash they are! They 
have no brains. They have no ambition! They slap 
each other! They make much noise. And in two days 
they are clowns. Bah! They disgust me. But you, 
you are clever! No doubt in some time past you have 
164 




MANSON AND MARION 


been an actor. There are certain things about you 
that suggest it. Eh? We shall have great sport to¬ 
morrow. Think you not so?” 

“I think not so/’ replied Cuddy. “You pass the 
word around the dressing room. Rony must manage 
the show without me. I’ll meet you in Clown Alley 
to-morrow morning. And all during to-morrow there 
shall be no Clarence Cuddington Cotter. Just Pierrot 
the Pantaloon.” 

“Before you go, Mr. Cotter,” said Jules, laying a 
detaining hand on Cuddy’s arm, “Pm going to accept 
the privilege of my years to say one more thing. I am, 
as circus performers go, an old man. Pve had three 
wives. I know women. All my wives have been good 
women. You find good women in all social classes. 
I think there are more good women in the circus than 
elsewhere. They have to be good. Circus life makes 
them such. I hope you know and value a good woman 
when you see one.” 

Cuddy paused in bewilderment. 

“What’s the rest of it?” he demanded. 

“There is no more,” said the clown. 

“Doors open!” yelled Lou Riley, official announcer. 
The clown climbed off the seats and ambled into the 
dressing room. 




XIV 

CUDDY CLOWNS THE SHOW 


I T was Rony Gavin who with managerial judgment 
suggested a closed car for Cuddy when that ex¬ 
collegian essayed to leave the circus train for the 
circus lot near the campus of Columbus College. 

“I don’t know why you want to keep under cover 
here, Mr. Cotter,” he said, “although I suspect that 
this is your old college and you don’t want your old 
pals to get hep. That’s your business. But if you’re 
going to make a clean job of it, I’d step from the 
sleeper on the side away from the towners—who always 
come down to the train to help us unload—straight 
into an automobile with curtains on it and beat it for 
the circus lot and dressing room, and Clown Alley.” 
“Not bad advice, Rony,” said Cuddy, and took it. 
“I’m entirely in your hands to-day, Jules,” he told 
the dean of Clown Alley. “Do with me as you will.” 

“You’ll have breakfast sent in from the cookhouse, 
then I’ll make you up for parade,” Jules said. “Didn’t 
you tell me you did something musical once upon a 
time ?” 

“I used to play the saxophone,” Cuddy admitted 
lamely. 


166 


CUDDY CLOWNS THE SHOW 


“Then you go in the clown band on top of the fourth 
tableau wagon,” the old clown ordered. “There’s an 
old saxophone in one of the clown property trunks. 
You can have that.” 

“Thanks,” mumbled Cuddy as from the top of a 
costume trunk he breakfasted on muskmelon, coffee, 
boiled eggs and toast. 

Not long afterwards an amateur clown, attired in a 
bright-red wig, a tiny feathered cap, green cutaway coat 
with gold buttons and epaulets, baggy white trousers 
and elephantine shoes, climbed hand over hand up the 
front of a towering tableau wagon as the Calkins 
Circus parade left the lot to tour the environs of 
Columbus College. Face, ears and neck were a glisten¬ 
ing white, save where a great red gash denoted the 
mouth, three broad red lines radiated across the fore¬ 
head from the bridge of the nose, two red triangles 
crossed the cheeks from eyes to ears and two large 
black dots flanked the nose and gave the impression of 
wide-open eyes. 

Admiring small boys trouped behind him and en¬ 
couraged his awkward ascent with shout and gesticu¬ 
lation. Strong hands reached from above and assisted 
him as he rose step by step. Kind words from his 
fellow buffoons bade him be of good cheer. Hearty 
congratulations were showered upon him when he had 
gained the top and flopped onto a hard board seat 
between two grotesque brethren. 

The erstwhile Cuddy Cotter, masquerading as a cir- 
167 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


cus clown in his old college town, was in a terrible 
funk. He was harboring the worst case of stage fright 
in his rather varied career. He was about to dare all 
Columbus College to identify him. If he had dared 
too much he was undone, socially and sentimentally. 
If he escaped discovery he would be no better off than 
he had been before, but he would have gotten away 
with it. And since youth adores the difficult, Cuddy, 
playing the Pantaloon, was suffering from a combina¬ 
tion of exhilaration and trepidation—he was excited 
to the limit, and nearly scared to death. 

“You wouldn’t believe it, Mr. Cotter—I beg your 
pardon, Pierrot,” said Pete Pardo, “but there’s no better 
place to study human nature than from the top of a 
parade wagon. I’ve been riding parades twenty sea¬ 
sons and I know.” Pete, attired in a libelous imitation 
of a Tut-ankh-a-men costume, grinned through his 
clown white, and spat upon the slide of his battered 
trombone. 

Cuddy regarded that musical instrument with won¬ 
der. “How on earth do you manage to play such a 
musical cripple?” he demanded. 

“Huh,’ ? replied Pete, “better look over the rest of 
our equipment. Boys, display your musical arma¬ 
ment.” 

The other clowns proudly exhibited a desperately 
dented tenor horn, once of shining brass but now a 
deep sea-green from seasons’ accumulation of tarnish; 
a dissolute baritone foully incrusted with verdigris, a 
fly-specked brass cornet, a bell-flattened tuba. Each 
168 




CUDDY CLOWNS THE SHOW 


of the caricatures of musicians on the sun-baked, rum¬ 
bling wagon-top flourished some wreck of alto, clari¬ 
net, drum, cornet, or other musical instrument. 

Cuddy shrank from impending possibilities. “And 
where is my saxophone ?” he inquired. 

“Here it is,” answered Pete Pardo. “Jules dug this 
up for you ‘special.’ ” Pete grinned again through his 
mask of clown white. 

Cuddy surveyed the tortured mass of keys, tubing, 
mouthpiece and bell that Pete thrust into his hands. 
It reminded him of a grossly elongated sea horse, up¬ 
side down. 

“And what do I do with it?” he demanded. 

“You make a noise on it every time we break loose,” 
Pete assured him. “Jules has to ride the clown cart 
in parade. I’m boss on this clown band wagon. You 
take orders from me. All you have to do when you 
hear the snare drum roll and the base drum boom is 
to cut loose with all the blue notes you know how. The 
cornets carry the lead. The rest doesn’t matter. Are 
you musical?” 

“I was,” said Cuddy. And he added: “You know, 
it just happens I never heard the clown band on 
parade.” 

“You’re going to hear it now,” Pete warned him. 

“Is it any worse than the clown band in the big show 
performance ?” 

“Being an artist and a master of mummery, I’m 
modest,” Pete confessed, “but we’ve been arrested more 
than once for disturbing the peace. Let’s go.” And 
169 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


they went. They went several times. Then Cuddy, 
who had squawked vigorously on the dismantled saxo¬ 
phone during each rendition of “Bananas,” “Three 
o’Clock in the Morning,” “Down on Coney Island,” 
“The Double Eagle,” and other popular ditties, inter¬ 
vened with a question: 

“Who lays out the street parade routes with this 
show ?” 

“Usually the contracting agent. Sometimes the 
twenty-four man,” Pete answered. 

“What’s the idea? To make them as long as pos¬ 
sible?” 

“Not necessarily. The main idea is to get close to 
schools and factories and down most of the main stems, 
wherever the crowd’s apt to be.” 

“How long do you suppose we’ll stay out this time ?” 
Cuddy queried as the four-ton wagon bumped over a 
railroad crossing. 

“Oh, maybe an hour or so,” said Pete. “Ah, there!” 
to a lady fair in a factory window. 

“Is it always as hot as this on parade?” Cuddy 
squirmed. 

“This is nothing. It’ll be fifty degrees hotter than 
this before we get back to the lot. Get busy and do 
some comedy with the folks on the sidewalks, that’s 
part of your job.” 

Cuddy dutifully grimaced and flapped his hands after 
the prescribed clown manner to a bevy of young misses 
who were greatly elated at the demonstration. 

170 




CUDDY CLOWNS THE SHOW 


“Don’t you ever have springs on these tableau 
wagons?” he asked. 

“Not so you could notice it.” 

“Or cushions?” 

“Not unless you bring them along with you.” 

“Or umbrellas?” 

“Not for the clown band.” 

“It certainly is getting hot.” 

“It’ll be hotter yet if these college students turn 
loose.” 

Cuddy looked about in alarm, then clung to his rock¬ 
ing bench lest he tumble on to the distant pavement. 
The parade had turned into Chaplin Road and was 
passing the Rho Epsilon chapter house. Slats and his 
confreres were on the porch. 

“Look out for rough stuff!” shouted Pete, and 
dodged. 

An ancient orange sailed through the air and landed 
on Cuddy’s torso. Another color was added to his 
costume. 

“My word!” said Merle Bennett of the cornet sec¬ 
tion. 

“Do—they—do—that—often?” demanded Cuddy, 
his hand to his bespattered breast. 

“Once in a while, in some of these tough towns,” 
Pete answered. “I remember once down in Pennsyl¬ 
vania some young towners stopped the clown wagon, 
unhitched the team, and turned the hose on us.” 

“Suppose they’ll think of it here?” from Cuddy. 

“Might,” from Pete. “Lookout!” Cuddy had been 
171 





CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“Pete, send some pony punk for Rony, will you?” 
said Cuddy. “I want to see him.” 

When Rony appeared, he and Cuddy held confer¬ 
ence back of the wardrobe wagon. 

“Now you understand what to do, don’t you, Rony V* 
Cuddy asked after the local situation had been thor¬ 
oughly discussed. 

“Absolutely,” Rony replied. “But you know the 
possible results?” 

“Yes. I’ll take a chance,” from Cuddy. 

Having prepared a promising day’s program, Cuddy 
went with others from Clown Alley to dinner at the 
cookhouse in his clown regalia. Once smeared with 
clown white and its companion colors, the circus jester 
dislikes to “wash up” just to eat a meal, especially if 
he knows that within the hour he will have to make up 
for the afternoon performance. So Cuddy and his 
brother Joeys dined in character while the towners 
stared through the cookhouse door and, as the dis¬ 
gusted troupers said, “watched the animals feed.” 

“When you see how ill-bred towners can be, do you 
wonder that circus people keep pretty much to them¬ 
selves?” Marion asked, as she joined him on the way 
back to the pad room. She had changed from her 
white parade costume into one of the neat gingham 
dresses she favored on the lot. 

“Some of them are pretty weak on social form,” 
Cuddy acknowledged. 

“I was too far in advance of you on parade to see 
what those students did to you, but I heard about it,” 
172 




CUDDY CLOWNS THE SHOW 


reclined on a trunk top in the men’s dressing room 
following the parade. The other occupants of Clown 
Alley were reciting the adventures of the morning with 
all the enthusiasm of soldiers who had escaped un¬ 
scathed. 

“Really it was most remarkable, y’ know,” said 
Merle Bennett. “I’ve clowned in the old country and 
over here before I came on this Calkins Show, and I 
never, y’ know, had any bloody bounders try to rough 
us as these fellows did this morning, y’ know. Eh, 
what?” 

“ ’Tis kind of peculiar,” admitted Pete. “Most 
students are noisy but they hardly ever pull anything 
like that stuff they handed us on parade.” 

“Must be some kind of a frame-up against us in 
this town,” Wee Willie Watkins suggested. “Ever 
play this town before, Pete?” 

Pete Pardo scratched his head. “Yeh, think I 
played it with the McMahon Show in ’98, but don’t 
remember that we had any trouble.” 

“Just a few weeks ago,” said Tommy Doolin, the 
wrestler, looking up from his novel, “as I now recall 
it, I read there was some rough stuff down at the circus 
runs here. The student gang may be laying for some 
other show—and here we are.” 

“Do you mind rough stuff, Tommy?” asked Cuddy. 

“I live on it,” was the wrestler’s response as he re¬ 
turned to the fascination of Hortense Holliday’s escape 
from the machinations of Simon Filagree. 

173 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


looking out—at his beloved Sniggs barking at the cir¬ 
cus elephants. 

A red ripe tomato was launched from the porch of 
the Zeta house as Pete sounded his warning. Cuddy, 
unused to this type of attack, received it on the left 
cheek. As he unintentionally turned the other cheek 
he caught sight of Orton Burch, Bushy Thorn and 
others of his college pals preparing for another assault 
from ambush. He flattened himself on the wagon top. 
“The faculty had no business allowing those rowdy 
boys to come back to college,” he growled. 

“Battle’s over, and you’re the only one hit,” an¬ 
nounced Pete as the parade left Chaplin Road and 
headed for the circus lot. “Rather a rare experience 
for us Joeys, I must admit,” he added. “Now one 
more tune and we’re done for the morning. Let’s play 
something solemn, ‘Work, For the Night Is Coming.’ ” 

The men in motley played with feeling, none more 
so than Cuddy—for out of the tail of his eye he saw 
Marjorie Dawson Trent. She was motoring toward 
him, vivid in her spring sport costume. Cuddy’s com¬ 
panions saluted her with an exaggeration of admira¬ 
tion. Cuddy remained mute and motionless. He 
looked her full in the eye. She returned his look with 
level glance. There was no sign of recognition. Cuddy 
breathed again. 

“It’s tough, but I’m going to get away with it,” he 
thought. “But won’t I hand it to the Rhos and my 
old Zeta friends once I get the chance!” 

He reflected on the glory that was Cuddy as he 
174 




X 

CUDDY CLOWNS THE SHOW 


she said. “I think it’s a burning shame. No showman 
would be so unsportsmanlike.” 

Cuddy smiled wanly through his clown white. “Oh, 
those students are just boys, you know,” he said apolo¬ 
getically. “Most of them are pretty good sports. 
You’ve seen a bad side of them that doesn’t crop out 
very often and that really doesn’t mean anything.” 

“You ought to know. You’ve been a college boy.” 

“Yes. I’ve been a college boy. And please be as¬ 
sured that on the average they are an awful nice lot 
and”—wistfully—“we have some mighty good times, 
too.” 

“Are the college girls—nice?” 

“The girls in American coeducational colleges are 
the finest girls in the world.” 

“Oh. Do you know some of them?” 

“Many. Of course.” 

“ ‘Coeducational’ means that boys and girls go to 
the same school.” 

“Yes.” 

“You think that a good idea?” 

“It makes fine pals of them. The girls pal with 
the boys and the boys pal with the girls. They get to 
understand each other. It’s better for all of them. 

“You made some friends—among the college girls?” 

“Oh, many.” 

“To what college did you go?” 

“Well—one of the colleges in the Middle West.” 

“You made some dear friends?” 

“Y-e-s.” 


175 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“Among the girls ?” 

“A few.” 

“Would they approve of what the boys did to you 
this morning?” 

“They wouldn’t understand. It’s just a lark to them. 
You see, they don’t know much about circus people. 
They’re really the finest kind of people. I’ve had some 
glorious times in college.” 

“I wish I might have gone to college.” 

“I wish you might.” 

“Will there be many college people at the show 
to-day?” 

“Probably a good many. To-night at least.” 

“Then I shall see them.” 

“Undoubtedly.” 

“And will you tell me more about them?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you going to clown the show to-day?” 

“I’m going to play Harlequin to your Columbine.” 

“That sounds interesting.” 

“It probably will be.” 

They parted in the pad room. 

Calkins’ Circus played to one of the lightest mati¬ 
nees of the season when Cuddy made his debut as a 
knockabout clown. 

“It’s more like a spring dress rehearsal,” said Jules 
Turner, as he took Cuddy in charge when the trumpets 
sounded for the opening spectacle. 

“Now you stick to me, and do everything I tell you,” 
176 



CUDDY CLOWNS THE SHOW 


the old clown admonished his pupil, as they joined the 
clown group in its “walk around” during the “spec.” 
“There’ll be a big crowd to-night. This is a combi¬ 
nation of college town and smoke-stack town, that 
generally means a good night show business.” 

For the next two hours Cuddy grimaced and laughed, 
did funny falls on the hippodrome track and in the 
rings, shouted loudly when his companions in poly¬ 
colored costumes slapsticked him or with resounding 
but painless blows smote him on the cheek, vigorously 
applauded Marion and the other stars in their particu¬ 
larly thrilling feats, held to the tail of Rajah, when 
that performing elephant made his exit, and, in other 
ways, was king’s jester to the court of Columbus 
College held in Calkins’ Circus tents. 

It was his whim to lead Marion into the ring when 
the time came for her wire act. He did it with the 
courtly grace that had won so much praise in the pro¬ 
ductions of the Columbus College Shakespeare Society. 
Perhaps he held her hand a bit too firmly, but that was 
the type of hand Marion possessed. It was small and 
white and smooth but wonderfully strong, and Cuddy 
was an adept at holding hands. At any rate, the inno¬ 
vation went well with the public. 

“I wonder what put this clowning idea into your 
mind?” she said, under cover of the band music as he 
put his hand to his heart and bowed low before her, 
then saluted as she sprang up the steps and ran out 
upon the wire. 


177 



CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“I'll never tell, but I’m beginning to like it,” he an¬ 
swered, smiling up at her. 

“You're a funny boy,” she responded as she whirled 
about on the wire and ran back to her perch while 
Cuddy cavorted on the ground beneath her. 

“I hope the audience thinks so,” he added, and with 
a most successful funny fall tumbled out of-the ring 
and left the star in full possession. 

The afternoon passed so peacefully and Cuddy’s 
clowning was so well received by performers and pub¬ 
lic that he was not prepared for the reaction of the 
evening. For during the evening performance the 
student Syrians came down like wolves on the fold 
and for a while the circus sheep didn’t know where to 
find themselves. In Cuddy’s case it was the proverbial 
pride going before the fall. 

It was with the utmost assurance that he had Jules 
Turner lay a new coat of clown white upon his fore¬ 
head, face and neck, and new red and black streaks 
over that. He had worn loose white gloves during the 
afternoon performance. He decided to take them off 
at night, for greater comfort. It was hot enough, 
anyway, in padded clown suits and poreless clown 
white. And it was evident that his disguise was com¬ 
plete. Jules had said that his own brother would not 
recognize him, or something like that, and Jules had 
been right about it. 

Jules had also been right about the night’s business. 
Students, factory folks and plain town’s people were 
on hand in thousands. Cuddy thrilled when he peeked 
178 




CUDDY CLOWNS THE SHOW 


through the dressing room curtains at the prospect of 
appearing incognito before all that throng of boys and 
girls, men and women with whom he had so long asso¬ 
ciated. 

“It’s going to be great to put this over on them,” 
he said. 

“Put what? Were you speaking to me?” It was 
Marion, at his elbow. 

“Gracious! I didn’t know you were there,” Cuddy 
exclaimed. “I was thinking that I would have a lot 
of fun playing clown before so many people.” 

“Who’ll never know who you are?” 

“That’s it. Who’ll never know who I am, even when 
I’m right among them.” 

He glanced down at his ungloved hands. Through 
the clown white there glinted an old seal ring that had 
been in his family for generations. It had encircled 
the little finger of his right hand for four college 
years. There were a hundred friends, one friend in 
particular, in Columbus College, who knew that ring 
right well. He hesitated a moment. The trumpets 
sounded for the opening spectacle. 

“Do you mind, Miss Fortescue, wearing this ring for 
me to-night? I’m afraid I might lose it.” He pulled 
it off and without waiting for her answer, slipped it 
on the third finger of her firm white hand. They took 
their appointed places in the spectacle and, far apart, 
marched around the hippodrome track. 

The first sign of trouble arose when Cuddy, Jules 
Turner and Pete Pardo were doing a bit of knock- 
179 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


about in front of the blue seats during the principal 
riding act. The riders had paused to change horses, 
the band had paused to take breath. The clowns, to 
fill this break, were engaged in frantic fisticuffs. 
Cuddy, as victim of a pseudo knockout, fell to the 
ground. As he fell a bunch of firecrackers fell also 
on him. They were alight and going off, around his 
head. 

Now fire has its proper place around a circus. It is 
necessary, and safe, in the cookhouse. It is necessary, 
and safe, in an oil lamp or torch to mark the way 
around the lot or to the train at night. It is necessary, 
and safe, in the circus lights that hang from the cen¬ 
ter poles at night. But uncontrolled it is a deadly 
menace, for the circus canvas is paraffined to make it 
waterproof and one match, to say nothing of one active 
firecracker, in touch with a circus canvas, means an 
instant and unquenchable conflagration. It means total 
destruction and, perhaps, death. The popping fire¬ 
crackers which fell upon Cuddy had come from the 
neighboring blue seats, crowded with college students. 

Cuddy forgot his role for a moment. He jumped 
to his feet, climbed the seats and seized the boy he 
thought responsible for the fireworks. The boy hap¬ 
pened to be Perry Givens. With him sat Carl Mitchell. 
Cuddy lunged at Perry. Carl cross-cut Cuddy as he 
came on. There were twenty property men, perform¬ 
ers, ushers and Cuddy mixing it with forty college stu¬ 
dents in two minutes. Lou Riley, official announcer, 
was about to make the announcement for the concert. 
180 





CUDDY CLOWNS THE SHOW 


Tommy Doolin, wrestler and feature of the concert, 
stood beside him. They rushed the combatants, with 
the aid of Pete and Jules. Tommy emerged from 
the melee with Cuddy’s collar in his hands. Cuddy’s 
neck was still inside the collar. 

“Gentlemen,” Lou Riley shouted, “please sit down. 
This clown will be attended to by us. He has just 
joined the show. We apologize. We’ll take care of 
him.” The band struck up, the riders leaped to their 
horses, Lou and Tommy hustled the struggling Cuddy 
into the dressing room. 

“Fll fire both of you for this,” Cuddy panted. 

“Time enough for that when we’re out of town,” 
said Tommy. “ Do y’ want to have your block knocked 
off by that mob of towners? Let ’em kid the show. 
They’ll get theirs before we’re off the lot.” 

Cuddy snarled at his wrestler. “How?” he de¬ 
manded. 

“Wait till the wrestling match in the concert. Fll 
handle them then,” Tommy snapped at him. “I know 
American crowds.” 

Jules intervened. “He’s right, Mr. Cotter—I mean, 
Pierrot. Let the boys have their heads until after the 
big show. They’ll stay for the wrestling match to see 
their college champion throw Tommy—then watch 
what we do to them.” 

“Have a heart, Guv’ner,” said Lou. “We know how 
to handle these college boys. Now please be good.” 

“All right,” was Cuddy’s reluctant response. “But 
there’s five or six of them Fd like to get.” 

181 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“Time enough for that,” Tommy assured him. 
“You point them out. I’ll fix ’em.’’ 

“Til have to change your make-up and costume be¬ 
fore you go into the big top again/’ said Jules. With 
Pete’s help he introduced Cuddy to the art of the quick 
change. In ten minutes Cuddy was doing Pete’s pet 
stunt on the other side of the tent. In battered top 
hat and far flapping evening dress he was offering to 
ladies his choice rare posies from a bouquet he held. 
When a lady accepted a flower at his hand she found 
herself holding the stem only. The flower had returned 
mysteriously to the clown’s bouquet. It was a good hit, 
one that always went over. 

Cuddy had a delightful time with that stunt. He 
was having a good time in every respect, until he 
sighted Marjorie, sitting in the first row of the center 
section of the reserved seats. He had tried to identify 
her on the seats during the opening spectacle and was 
greatly relieved that she was not present. Evidently 
she had come late. Beside her, very much in attend¬ 
ance, sat Slats Murphy. Cuddy turned cold. He re¬ 
treated to the dressing room. There Jules found him. 

“What’s the matter?” the old clown called. “Hurry 
up and get out on the hippodrome track. We’re due 
there right away.” 

“Can’t. I’m sick,” Cuddy groaned. 

“Sick? My eye. You were all right a minute ago.” 

“Honest, Jules. I’m sick,” Cuddy insisted. 

“Sick, nothing/’ Jules replied. “Manson doesn’t 
allow any one to be sick in this dressing room. You’re 
182 




CUDDY CLOWNS THE SHOW 


a clown to-day, you know. Want to lose the respect 
of the people who’re working for you because you won’t 
take your own medicine? The show has to go on. 
You made a bet. Don’t welch.” 

Pete Pardo joined the two. 4 

“Why did you two fade away and gum up that bit 
the three of us had rehearsed?” he demanded. “That 
went big this afternoon. It would be a riot to-night, 
although the students are raising Cain with their crazy 
yells and stunts.” 

Jules whispered so loudly that Cuddy might hear it. 
“Hush! Our gallant Pierrot has no stomach for this 
circus stuff. He is a parlor performer. Or perhaps 
a woman in disguise—yes—that is it—Pierrot is a 
woman. Let the lady sleep.” 

“Ah, well,” said Pardo, falling into the business of 
the impromptu play. “You might be right. If the 
lady is indisposed we will not disturb her. But,” he 
added, “Marion Fortescue waits at yon dressing-room 
door to be led forth for further triumphs by one once 
known as Pierrot. Will you, good Jules, essay to take 
Pierrot’s place?” 

Cuddy jlimped to his feet. Riley’s voice could be 
heard announcing the coming of the evening star. 
“And now I have the magnificent plea-sure,” Lou 
cried, “to present to you the peer of all the world’s 
aerial artists, the queen of the silver wire—Miss 
Marion Fortescue. Watch her!” 

The band struck up. Cuddy dashed to the dressing- 
room entrance. Hand in hand Marion and he emerged 

183 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


into the brilliantly lighted big top. Hand in hand they 
walked into the center ring. With a deep bow he led 
his lady to the steps whence she ascended to her silver 
wire. There was a burst of applause. Cuddy cavorted 
on the ground while Marion danced upon the wire. 
Then he did his funny fall, tumbled out of the tent into 
the dressing room and said, so that Jules and Pete 
might hear, “Pm going all the way through with this 
clown business.” 

Through Cuddy went. Through the ordeal of 
clownish assault and battery in front of his college 
ladylove. Through the trial and tribulation of making 
a fool of himself as saxophonist in the clown band. 
Through the agony of seeing his beloved and bored 
Marjorie Dawson Trent superciliously smile as Cuddy 
played the mountebank, the Merry Andrew, before her. 

The fun had gone out of the thing long before half 
his self-appointed task was finished. He had volun¬ 
tarily assumed the role of Harlequin to Marion For- 
tescue’s Columbine. At Marion’s every appearance it 
was his lot to caper, grin, posture and point, to tumble 
about and act the witling. He finally found himself 
sadly seeking sympathy from her as he grinned through 
his mask of clown white. She did not know what was 
going through his mind. She only knew that his face 
and body contorted for the pleasure of the multitude. 
And from time to time she smiled down at him from 
her horse, her butterfly swing or trapeze. Only 
Marion’s smile kept Cuddy going. For in the middle 
of the performance, as he was playing Punchinello not 
184 




CUDDY CLOWNS THE SHOW 


ten feet from Marjorie, he saw his college sweetheart 
yawn and heard her say, quite plainly: “The poor fool. 
What an awfully tiresome clown.” 

To which he heard Slats reply: “These circus people 
are only half wits anyway. He certainly is a rotten 
clown.” 

Thereupon a great longing possessed Cuddy to flee 
the circus and all that went therewith. And there 
surged within him the supreme desire to speak to Mar¬ 
jorie, no matter how. 

The show was over. The crowd, save those who 
remained for the concert and wrestling match, was 
streaming toward the opening where they would soon 
be lost in the darkness. There was no time to lose if 
Cuddy were to speak to her. He ran through the pad 
room and around to the front door, seized a bundle 
of little rubber balloons from an astonished balloon 
vender, shoved that retainer from his soap box, took 
his stand in the midst of the outpouring stream and 
began his call: “Balloons, gentlemen. Who wants a 
balloon ? Only ten cents. Get a balloon for your girls, 
boys.’’ He saw Marjorie and Slats drifting toward 
him. Jumping from his box he stood directly in their 
path. “Balloons, gentleman. Get a balloon for your 
girl, my friend. Lady, don’t you want a balloon?” 

Slats looked at the balloons and at Marjorie. 

“Here’s that ass of a clown again, selling balloons. 
Want a balloon, Marjorie?” he said. 

“No, thank you,” she answered. “I’ve had all the 
circus I want. Let’s hurry along. We have an infor- 

185 





CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


mal at our sorority house to-night/’ But she looked 
closely at Cuddy. 

As they passed him, Slats said to her: “Don’t you 
think that was a pretty clever girl who walked the 
wire ?” 

“I don’t remember her,” replied Marjorie, yawning. 
“I never could identify circus people or Chinamen.” 
She turned her head toward Cuddy. 

“Pretty good show though, wasn’t it?” Slats 
went on. 

“All circuses look alike to me. Thanks for taking 
me, Slats, but I think circuses frightfully tiresome,” 
she answered with a puzzled frown. 

Cuddy released the balloons and made his way sadly 
back to the dressing room. He had spoken to Mar¬ 
jorie but it had not made him happy. 

“Better get into the big top. Trouble brewing,” 
Jules warned him as Cuddy dropped upon a trunk in 
Clown Alley. 

Cuddy wearily found his feet and the entrance into 
the big top. 

Tommy Doolin, actor and wrestler, was working his 
college-student audience up to a fighting pitch. Tommy 
was a master in the art of the framed wrestling match. 
He had taken on Dug Ward, the champion college 
wrestler, for a fifteen-minute bout. Dug was to have 
five dollars for every minute he kept his shoulders off 
the mat—after the first ten minutes. 

Tommy was deliberately roughing Dug. One mo- 
186 




CUDDY CLOWNS THE SHOW 


ment he would push Dug’s nose up to that college 
athlete’s forehead. In another moment he would put 
a finger in Dug’s mouth and stretch it almost to that 
suffering young man’s ear. There were cries of 
“Foul, foul!” from the college boys on the blue seats, 
cries so loud that they were heard above the clatter 
of seat planks dropped to the ground by seat men 
“tearing down” on the opposite side of the tent. 

Then Tommy caught Dug in his arms, lifted him 
high in air, threw him hard upon the mat, fell on him 
with both knees, then half arose and shook his fists 
at the college crowd. It was enough. The college 
boys swarmed off the seats, Orton Burch and Bushy 
Thorn in the lead, many Rho Epsilon boys following. 

Cuddy’s sorrow turned to anger. Forgetting his 
make-up, forgetting everything but the insults given 
him that day, he rushed forward shouting: “Get ’em, 
Tommy! Get ’em! That’s the bunch! That’s the 
bunch! Right there!” 

Tommy “got ’em,” with the assistance of a hundred 
or so canvasmen and seat men, summoned by Boss 
Canvasman McGinnis’ whistle, and suitably armed with 
tent stakes. Many a gallant college boy fell on the 
field of battle. Many a circusman carried signs of 
combat from the lot that night. It was a combination 
of cane rush, mud fight, freshman class election and 
unumpired football, with no quarter asked and both 
sides warning the police to stay out of it. Eventually 
right and might, as personified by Cuddy’s minions, 

187 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


prevailed. The college boys retired in good order, 
philosophically accepting fortune’s ill favor. 

As Cuddy stood, clothed in his everyday suit and 
his right mind, within the darkened pad room, he 
thought he heard one of the retreating students say in 
passing: “Cuddy Cotter started this whole thing weeks 
ago. Then he went away and left us to finish it. Gee! 
but that wrestler handled Perry Givens and Bushy 
Thorn awfully rough.” 

Rony Gavin appeared at the pad room sidewall with 
a closed taxi. “Jump in,” he softly called. “Our men 
are strung along the route from lot to train, with tent 
stakes in hand, but this taxi is safer for you—if you 
still want to keep under cover.” 

A half mile down the street they overtook Marion 
trudging calmly toward the train. Cuddy stopped the 
car. “She should come with us,” he said to Rony. 
Rony jumped out and returned with Marion. 

“Weren’t you afraid to walk alone to the train fol¬ 
lowing that clem on the lot?” Cuddy asked her. 

“I’m never afraid and I’ve walked from lot to train 
a thousand nights alone without being annoyed. The 
towners don’t know I’m a trouper,” she answered de¬ 
fiantly. Then, earnestly, “Did you enjoy your day of 
disguise, Mr. Cotter?” 

“More or less,” said Cuddy. 

“That’s a South American’s answer,” she countered. 

“What do you know about South America?” 

“Toured it with Fipp & Reltus Circus once.” 

“Once?” 




CUDDY CLOWNS THE SHOW 


‘That was enough. Too much yellow fever and 
bubonic plague when I was in that territory, and too 
many soft-headed Latin-American caballeros” she 
laughed. “Why must a towner, north or south of the 
equator, think he must make love to a circus girl ?” 

“Does he—always ?” 

“Nearly—always.” 

A long pause. Rony, former circus treasurer, dis¬ 
creetly treasured his words. 

Marion resumed with: “I thought you were not 
going to have any more clems on this show.” 

“Couldn’t avoid this one,” Cuddy replied. “Some 
of those college boys needed chastisement.” He all 
but smiled when he thought of Perry Givens and Bushy 
Thorn. “But,” he hastened to say, “you must not 
judge college people by the few wild ones you saw on 
the lot to-night or those fellows who threw things at 
me on parade. Most college people are studious— 
serious-minded, although we—they—do have lots of 
honest good times.” 

“I know,” she answered. “I walked through the 
college grounds on the way to the lot this morning. 
Then I went back and into some of the buildings be¬ 
tween shows this afternoon.” 

“Indeed! And what did you see that particularly 
interested you?” 

“I spent most of my time in the library.” 

“That’s more than most college students can say,” 
he declared with conviction born of experience. 

The taxi rolled past a brilliantly lighted house, 
189 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


through the open windows of which came a vision of 
swaying couples and the strains of step-starting music. 

“Oh! A dancing party!” Marion clapped her 
hands. “Wouldn’t you love to go in there and dance, 
Mr. Cotter ?” 

“Oh! Wouldn’t I V* exclaimed Cuddy. It was Mar¬ 
jorie Trent’s sorority house. 

The three rode in silence to the circus train. Cuddy’s 
mind romped around a college triangle with Marjorie, 
Sniggs and the Zeta house at the corners. Forgotten 
by its owner, the old seal ring of the Cotter family 
remained on Marion’s hand. 




XV 

TWO—AND A COTTAGE 
UDDY’S circus had wandered into the heart of 



the wheat country and luck had been with it 


in all departments, until old Slim Gatten, prop¬ 
erty man, slipped from his perch near the top of 
the tent and into the great beyond. Some other prop¬ 
erty man completed the repairs upon which Slim had 
been working while a half hundred circus attaches did 
honor to Slim’s mortal remains. The mourners were 
grouped about a monument in the cemetery at Wah- 
petan, North Dakota. The monument recalled a circus 
tragedy that some of the group had witnessed many 
years before. It was to them touchingly emblematic, 
showing a broken center pole, from which hung broken 
ropes and pulleys. A torn and twisted tent drooped 
from the broken pole to the ground. 

The men in the group uncovered their heads as 
Ganwell’s band, neglecting the quicksteps, gallops, jazz 
and waltzes of their circus program, played “Nearer, 
My God, To Thee.” Men and women in the group 
bowed their heads. Some wept. Fresh flow r ers lay 
upon Slim’s grave and the older graves at the base of 
the monument. It was a serious Sunday with the 
Calkins show. Cuddy stepped forward, hat in hand. 


191 


CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“Friends and Fellow Professionals,” he said. “Per¬ 
haps I should have had some local preacher here to 
express for us what I shall now try to say. We’ve 
had preachers on the lot many times since I took charge 
of this show. But to-day we are gathered for a simple 
ceremony which we can understand better than any- 
outsider, preacher or layman. 

“Slim and the other circus folks who lie here in 
their last sleep died in the performance of duty, just 
as you may die some day. We in the circus business 
are accustomed to taking chances. It’s all in our day’s 
work and the show has to go on. Some of you were 
here in the blow-down of 1897. Certain men stayed 
at their stations. There was nothing unusual in that. 
You would all do the same under similar circumstances. 
Those showmen died on their jobs just as Slim did. 
We come to pay our humble respect to their memory. 
And I know we all thank God that none of us died 
when the big storm struck us at Dundonald this spring. 
You took your chances then as you always take them. 
I’ve learned a lot about people since I came on this 
show, but I think about the biggest thing I’ve learned 
is that you can always bank on the bravery of a show¬ 
man, on his bravery and his devotion to duty. So I 
just want to pay this little tribute to you who are 
among the living, to tell you that I never met a gamer 
bunch than you are. And now let’s bow our heads in 
silent prayer for those who here sleep their last sleep.’’ 

The little group remained in reverent attitude while 
a woman’s voice was raised in “Abide with Me.” 

192 




TWO—AND A COTTAGE 


Then Micky O’Mara of the stables, Pop McGinnis of 
the canvas, Jules Turner of Clown Alley, Marion For- 
tescue of the Five Flying Fortescues, riding artistes, 
razorbacks, rough-necks, animal trainers, department 
managers and the others of the half hundred trooped 
slowly back to the circus lot and prepared for the grind 
of the week to follow. 

The cemetery scene was not new to them. They had 
participated in similar ceremonies at other graves of 
showmen in every part of the country. Traveling folk 
they were, leading a semigypsy life, but they all knew 
that at the end of their season called “life” they were 
going on the long, long journey, for which there is no 
route sheet. And they contemplated the end with 
serenity, for most of them lived according to their 
lights, cleanly and unselfishly, and accepted what for¬ 
tune brought them with a certain fatalism, sometimes 
with a certain carelessness. 

Marion Fortescue was trying to explain this show¬ 
man’s philosophy to her employer as she and Cuddy 
walked through the town and discussed matters of life 
and death as young people will. 

“All of us in the profession know that sooner or 
later we must leave the road,” she said. “Many per¬ 
formers stay in the ring until they are fifty or more, 
but most of them are less fortunate. A fall, a rail¬ 
road wreck, a blow-down, some serious illness puts 
them in the hospital. The show goes on and leaves 
them. For a while the friends in the dressing room 
write to the friend they have left on the sick bed. Then 
193 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


in the hurry and hustle of circus life, the hard days 
and soft days, the dark days and bright, the healthy 
troupers, traveling from town to town, a thousand 
miles or more from where their old friend dropped 
out of the company, write less and less to him or her. 
Then one day on the lot some performer picks up The 
Billboard —our weekly Social Register—and in glanc¬ 
ing over its pages he sees a little item like : 

“ ‘Gertrude Robbins is ill in the hospital at Waco, 
Texas, and would like to hear from her friends/ That 
means that Gertrude has spent whatever money she 
may have saved up, is dead broke and must have help 
or become a charity patient. Plenty of old performers 
are charity patients, to our shame be it said. But 
human nature is human nature, in and out of the show 
business. Whenever the dressing room runs across an 
item like that some one takes up a collection, usually a 
pretty generous one, the money is sent back to Ger¬ 
trude or whoever it may be. Then the show closes its 
season, the company scatters, and the down-and-outer 
is forgotten, perhaps for all time. 

“Do you remember that picture, ‘The Wounded 
Comrade/ I think they call it? A wild elephant has 
been shot by a big-game hunter. The wounded animal 
staggers, with a bullet somewhere in its vitals. Two 
unwounded members of the herd dash up to support 
the wounded one. They get the hunter’s victim be¬ 
tween them, hold him up and urge him on. In time he 
drops. They stand a moment watching their prostrate 
comrade before they make for the jungle. That’s what 
194 




TWO—AND A COTTAGE 


happens to most wounded troupers. That’s what may 
happen to me some day. I’m not worrying. I’m try¬ 
ing to play the game, go straight and save my money. 
But I’ve seen many a performer laid on the shelf since 
I first joined out.” 

“I suppose it’s a bully thing that we don’t know that 
Old Man Jinx is waiting for us around the corner,” 
Cuddy answered. “But I’m just like you, I’m trying 
to play the game as I find it and not to worry. I must 
admit, though, that if you hadn’t backed me up the 
way you have, I’d have lost my nerve and quit the 
circus long ago. You know, I owe a great deal to you, 
Miss Fortescue.” 

“You owe me nothing, Mr. Cotter. I like a fighter.” 

“You inspired me to fight.” 

“I’m glad to have done something in a good cause. 
It has paid you to fight.” 

“Sometimes I hardly know myself,” Cuddy admitted. 
“Before I inherited this circus, my hardest fighting was 
in college—to get dances with the right girls at the 
college balls.” 

“You miss those right girls?” 

“Not so much as I thought I would.” His eyes were 
as frank as his lips. If he hadn’t been talking to a 
circus girl Cuddy would have assured himself that 
Marion Fortescue had charm. She certainly had fresh¬ 
ness. She was wholly healthy in mind and body. Two 
months of trouping with Calkins’ Circus had taught 
him that. He had gotten that idea during the first two 
days on the circus lot. The idea had been growing 
195 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


ever since. He felt that he knew her better than any 
girl in the world, even better than his college sweet¬ 
heart, Marjorie Dawson Trent. It is pretty hard to 
camouflage character in a circus company. Its mem¬ 
bers are thrown too much together under too wide a 
variety of circumstance. Marjorie and college had a 
strong hold on him. His heart told him that, every 
day. But he loved his circus life. It was pretty 
tough, sometimes, but there was never a dull day on 
the circus job. 

Marion Fortescue, being an artist, could charm a 
circus audience or a young man from college or she 
could completely efface herself. And now, having 
skillfully effaced herself for five minutes, she inter¬ 
rupted Cuddy’s meditation. 

“Did Watertown Weed tell you he wanted to see 
you, Mr. Cotter?” 

“Oh, damn!’’ said Cuddy, emerging from his trance. 

“I beg your pardon.” Marion could be haughty. 

“I beg your pardon,” was Cuddy’s contrite reply. 
“That didn’t sound nice, coming from a circus owner 
who has forbidden swearing on the lot. You certainly 
brought me back to business with a bump. And I was 
having the most gorgeous dream!” He looked long¬ 
ingly toward the setting sun. “There was a little pink 
cottage on the shell road along the soft sand beach at 
Pass Christian. In the yard around the cottage were 
great live oaks bearded with gray Spanish moss. It 
was December but there were magnolia trees in bloom 
and great beds of roses and hibiscus bushes, and hedges 
196 




TWO—AND A COTTAGE 


of blue plumbago. Red and purple bougainvillea 
climbed the cottage walls. Out on the clear blue Mexi¬ 
can Gulf the sailboats lazily rolled. And as evening 
came on, and the moon rode high, and a mocking bird, 
perched right above the porch, began his repertoire of 
unscored operatic airs, I reached over and whispered: 
'Journey’s end. The season’s closed.’ ” 

“To whom did you whisper?” Marion had lived a 
life of discipline but she was much more human than 
divine. 

Cuddy was still annoyed by the abrupt awakening 
from his dream. He gazed with rare resentment at 
the star performer of Calkins’ Circus. “I refuse to 
answer,” he said to the Queen of the Arena. 

“You’ve answered already. It’s some one you left 
back in college.” 

“Why did you din Watertown Weed’s mundane 
name into my ear when I was communing with my 
poetic and prophetic soul?” 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cotter. I’m only keeping my prom¬ 
ise to Weed. He is very anxious to see you. Says he 
has important news for you.” 

“Ah, well, we live by contrast, I suppose,” Cuddy 
sighed. “It was a peachy dream. I should apologize 
for indulging in it when you and I are walking in the 
gloaming or near-gloaming of Wahpetan, North Da¬ 
kota. But it meant more—to me than you might 
think. I—” 

“Yes?” Marion’s voice was delicately encourag¬ 
ing. 


197 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“That’s all,” Cuddy declared with determined final¬ 
ity. “You’ve jerked my mind back to business. Now, 
where’s Weed?” 

“Probably in the animal tent,” she replied coldly. 

“I’ll go see him,” said Cuddy. “Good night, Miss 
Fortescue.” 

“Good night, Mr. Cotter.’’ 

Marion went to the dressing room, opened her ward¬ 
robe trunk and got out her riding whip. “I’d like 
to use it on myself,” she muttered. “Sometimes I’m 
hopelessly stupid.” 

“And if you don’t use it, I will, on you,” said Man- 
son over her shoulder. “If you don’t quit that simp 
I’ll jump the show with you or I’ll sap him for keeps.” 




CHAPTER XVI 
CUDDY BUYS AN ELEPHANT 


W ATERTOWN WEED, boss animal man, of¬ 
fered one of the contrasts to which Cuddy had 
so recently referred. Marion Fortescue was 
dainty, delectable, disarming. Watertown Weed was 
a boss animal-man. In his personality he was a com¬ 
posite of the personalities with which he was sur¬ 
rounded. He was as hairy as an ape, as careless about 
water as a camel, as huge as an elephant, as restless as 
a hyena, as homely and kind-hearted as Bam, the bull¬ 
dog mascot of the menagerie. He grudgingly cred¬ 
ited human beings with a place of passing importance 
in the scheme of things, but his idea of heaven was a 
transplanted and transformed Garden of Eden densely 
inhabited by all the animals from the Ark, intensively 
educated by Watertown Weed. He had just made a 
great discovery. 

“Guv’ner,” Weed hailed Cuddy with enthusiasm, 
“look here! On page six of The Billboard! Bushman’s 
circus is being sold at auction in Chicago next Sat¬ 
urday.’’ 

“That leaves me cold, Weed. Why the excite¬ 
ment?” said Cuddy, his mind on Pass Christian and 
the girl on the moonlit porch. 

199 


CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“Bushman’s got an elephant you want. It’s Baby¬ 
lon, one of the best trained bulls in the business. I’ve 
known that bull for fifteen years. He’s no dummy, 
believe me. Asiatic, of course. Don’t ever fall for 
one of them African bulls. They’ve got big ears and 
make a big flash with the rubes, but you can’t teach 
them nothing. Now this Babylon bull! Guv’ner, that 
bull works in the ring, single, double or triple. He 
works in harness if you want a chariot pulled in the 
parade or grand entry. He’ll push any wagon out of 
the mud single-handed. He’s a big bull. Weighs 
more’n three tons. Guv’ner, you just got to grab 
that bull. Bet you can get him for two thousand dol¬ 
lars.” 

“It’ll cost me two thousand dollars to catch Calkins 
and make him and Goldman confess they conspired to 
beat me out of this show with a phony bill of sale,” 
Cuddy answered. “Why buy more property when 
I’m hanging on by my eyebrows?” 

“We need another bull for Miss Fortescue’s elephant 
act. Two of them is all right, but Rajah’s getting 
worse and worse on signals. Please, Guv’ner. Go 
into Chicago and bid for that bull. Bulls have been 
scarce since the war.” 

“Why don’t you go yourself?” 

“You know I can’t leave this show for a day, Guv’¬ 
ner. Two of them lions is sick. Weaver isn’t work¬ 
ing those seals the way he should. I’m fillin’ in on the 
monks and dogs in Number Two ring, until Tony, the 
200 




CUDDY BUYS AN ELEPHANT 


punk, gets well. I got to stay with the show. You 
go, Guv’ner.” 

Cuddy consulted his route sheet. That did not in¬ 
crease his friendliness toward Weed’s idea. 

“I’ve lost about five thousand dollars on this trip 
into the grain country already,” he growled. “Haw¬ 
kins is a bum general agent. He jumped us from 
Indiana to North Dakota in eight stands. Just look 
at that route: Fowler, Indiana; La Salle, Illinois; 
Warren, Illinois; Independence, Iowa; Lyle, Minne¬ 
sota; Chaska, Minnesota; Montevideo, Minnesota, and 
Wahpetan, North Dakota.” Cuddy grunted with 
disgust. 

“Then Hawkins finds we’re here too early and that 
the hot winds have dried up the wheat fields, so he 
jumps us right back east again through Litchfield, 
Minnesota; Lake City, Minnesota; Sparta, Wisconsin, 
Baraboo, Wisconsin; Janesville, Wisconsin; Wood- 
stock, Illinois, Auburn, Indiana. Those jumps average 
a hundred miles each, twice the minimum railroad 
haul, and not two good towns on the list. I certainly 
have burned up that Hawkins boy by wire/’ 

“I’m sorry about the route, Guv’ner.” Weed re¬ 
fused to be sidetracked. “But that Babylon bull’ll be 
worth ten thousand dollars on the season, after I get 
him working with our Baldy and King bulls.” 

Cuddy began to weaken. 

“Miss Fortescue will be awfully tickled to have that 
Babylon bull in her elephant act, Guv’ner.” Weed 
drove that shot home. 


201 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“Oh, all right, Weed.” Cuddy surrendered. “I'll 
jump on to Chicago and look in on the auction.” 

“Thanks, Guv’ner.” Weed, having won his boss, 
charged upon his helpers. “You dummies!” he 
shouted. “How many times have I got to tell you to 
take those bulls outside to brush them off? Want to 
keep all the dust in North Dakota inside this animal 
top?” 

Cuddy took the train for the auction. 

There are auctions and auctions and auctioneers and 
auctioneers. Cuddy, still a simp in many matters, was 
not familiar with the crooked circus auction, neither 
was he familiar with the fine points of performing ele¬ 
phants and he had no good friend to guide him. By 
that mysterious grapevine route, swifter and more ef¬ 
fective than the telegraph, Bushman had Cuddy’s num¬ 
ber before Cuddy alighted from the passenger train 
at the Chicago & Northwestern Railroad Station in 
Chicago. 

“Pass the word to the bidders that I’m going to 
unload that bad bull, Robber, on a simp named Clar¬ 
ence Cuddington Cotter. That’s the simp that took 
the Calkins show away from Calkins and then ran Sol 
Goldman and his grifters away from the show.” Thus 
did Bushman issue orders to his lieutenants. “Tell 
the bidders—I mean the wise ones—that they can make 
their bids for Babylon on Robber, see? No one wants 
Robber. I sure don’t. But when we get through 
202 




CUDDY BUYS AN ELEPHANT 


bidding, Robber’ll belong to Cotter, the simp. Serves 
him right for butting into the show business.” 

Cuddy walked into the auction barn and introduced 
himself to Bushman. He was promptly made much 
of by bidders and by-bidders, touts, pluggers and non¬ 
bidding bystanders. The auction proceeded. 

“Once more. Last call. Last chance. Going, 
going. G-o-n-e! Sold to Mr. Cadigan over there, at 
a bargain.” 

Mr. Cadigan, Cuddy’s bitter rival, had bid in a 
gilded cage into which he would put Cuddy knew not 
what bird. Cadigan had been an active bidder from 
the opening of the auction. And Cadigan had been 
among the first of the showmen present to make much 
of Cuddy. 

“That was a nice little bit of opposition we had back 
in Ohio,’’ he remarked as he seized Cuddy’s unprepared 
hand. Cuddy returned the greeting rather lamely. 
“Oh, don’t bother about a little thing like opposition,” 
Cadigan laughingly urged him. “That’s all in the 
day’s work. You’re initiated now. A regular show¬ 
man. He’s one of us, eh, Keller?” Cadigan was a 
jovial soul. The world was his oyster. He liked it. 

Keller, whose circus had recently joined Cadigan’s 
in an earnest and active endeavor to break Cuddy and 
his show, rallied Cuddy upon the affair. He was even 
more friendly than Cadigan to the young showman 
who had beaten them at their own game. He never 
nursed a grudge. 

“You certainly put one over on us with that Com- 
203 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


mercial Club stunt of yours,” he reminded Cuddy. 
“Some sharp little showman, you are, Mr. Cotter. You 
noticed we ran away when we’d had enough. You 
doing some bidding to-day ?” He proffered a fat cigar. 

“Don’t know yet,” answered the still cautious Cuddy. 
He was vastly pleased that his enemies should be will¬ 
ing to let bygones be bygones. He felt more at ease 
among these magnates of the circus world. 

“The next lot,” announced the auctioneer, “is two 
seventy-foot steel flat cars, made at Mount Vernon, 
Illinois. You all know the manufacturer. Most of 
you gentlemen have inspected the goods. What am I 
offered?” 

“Five hundred dollars,” said Cuddy. He hadn’t 
thought of buying flat cars when he entered the auction 
bam, but he needed two flat cars badly. 

“Oh, come,” said the auctioneer. “Those cars cost 
one thousand, five hundred dollars new. They’ve only 
been used three months. Not buckled or strained in 
any way. Paint’s hardly been scratched on them. 
Carry a third more than sixty-foot wooden flats.” 

“Six hundred dollars,” said another bidder. 

“Eight hundred dollars,” said Cuddy. And he got 
them at that figure. 

“Some bargain!” said Cadigan to Cuddy. 

“Dirt cheap!” Cuddy was told by Keller. 

Then Cuddy sat back and watched showmen from 
all parts of the country bidding on the paraphernalia 
of the late-lamented Bushman’s World’s United Shows. 
Sharp eyed, with memo books in hand, they sat on 
204 




CUDDY BUYS AN ELEPHANT 


the tiers of blue seats rising in front of the auction¬ 
eer’s stand, while heavy baggage wagons, bales of can¬ 
vas, cages, ropes and tackle, poles, stakes, seat jacks, 
seat planks, monkeys, bears, band-wagons, bespangled 
circus wardrobe, plumes and harness, stock cars, side 
show banners, circus lights went under the hammer. 

Cadigan and Keller, one on each side of Cuddy, put 
in an occasional bid. So did representatives of a dozen 
other shows. But the most consistent bidder was old 
Dad Ball of Kirdville, Missouri. 

“What is he bidding so regularly for ?” Cuddy asked 
his companions. 

“Dad makes a business of outfitting shows,’’ they 
explained. “He buys up all the busted ones, keeps 
the stuff on his farm near Kirdville, and sells it out 
again to the new shows. Made a million at it in last 
ten years.” Dad, an ancient showman, was busy mak¬ 
ing notes and purchases. 

Cuddy filed the address in his mind against the time 
when he would make of Calkins’ show the very great¬ 
est of all the great shows. As a circus manager, Cuddy 
was coming along. He was ten thousand dollars ahead 
of the game since he had joined the Calkins Show at 
Roanoke, Virginia. He might get back the one hun¬ 
dred and fifty thousand dollars his late father had sunk 
in that circus. He was pondering upon the possibility 
of cleaning up fifty thousand dollars during the season 
when the auctioneer offered the elephants for inspec¬ 
tion of the bidders. There was a stir among the show¬ 
men present. 


205 



CUDDY OF' THE WHITE TOPS 


“Just two bulls to be sold to-day, gentleman/’ the 
auctioneer suavely announced. “This first one here, 
a fine upstanding bull called,” he whispered to Bush¬ 
man, “called Babylon, gentlemen, is the best of the 
two.” The auctioneer swept the tiers of seats with 
his professional glance. “You will note that Babylon 
is a splendid bull. Height, nine feet, one inch; weight, 
nine thousand pounds; age, twenty-nine years; good 
all-round performer, kind and docile, will work on the 
lot or in the ring. What am I offered for this choice 
bull, gentlemen?” 

Cuddy felt the tenseness in the audience of buyers. 
They all seemed on the point of bidding at once. 
Cuddy popped up with: “Five hundred dollars.” 

There was a moment of silence, then the bidding 
became spirited. Cadigan, Keller, many men whom 
he did not know, jumped into the game. “Six hun¬ 
dred dollars. “Seven hundred dollars.” “Eight hun¬ 
dred dollars.” The bidding had gone to one thousand 
dollars before Cuddy could get his breath. “One thou¬ 
sand, five hundred dollars,” he shouted. He was ex¬ 
cited now, and determined. If Weed wanted this 
Babylon elephant and Marion Fortescue wanted it, then 
Babylon they should have if his money held out. He 
had but three thousand dollars with him. There was 
another pause. The showmen looked around at each 
other. Then the bidding started again. Cadigan, Ball 
and Keller led the attack. “I just got to have that 
Babylon bull,” Cuddy heard Keller say to Cadigan. 

206 




CUDDY BUYS AN ELEPHANT 


“Two thousand dollars,” Cuddy shouted. The other 
bidders fell sharply away. 

‘‘Last call! Last chance! Going. Going. 
G-o-n-e! And sold to Mr. Clarence Cuddington 
Cotter of the Calkins show,” the auctioneer announced, 
striking the board in front of him with a huge wooden 
mallet. Cadigan and Keller hastened to congratulate 
Cuddy. “You sure bought something,” they declared 
in unison. Ball and the other bidders smiled cordially 
at Cuddy. 

In fifteen minutes the auction was over. Robber, 
“the bad bull/’ had been brought out and, much to 
Cuddy’s surprise, had sold, after hot bidding, at four 
thousand dollars. Cuddy might have meditated upon 
this puzzling price had not Bushman hurried him to 
the elephant stalls. Cuddy was willing to be hurried, 
because he wanted to get back to the show with his 
latest acquisition. 

“Here is your receipt, Mr. Cotter,” said Bushman, 
as Cuddy counted out the currency to cover the pur¬ 
chase price. “The flat cars you bought are in the 
Panhandle yards. You can arrange to have them— 
the cars—forwarded by the railroad to your show 
almost any time.” 

Cuddy inspected his elephant. “I’ll come back and 
get him after dinner,” he said, addressing the elephant 
keeper. “By the way, keeper, what’s your name and 
salary?” 

“Salter Simmons, Guv’ner,” said the bull man. “I 
207 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


got forty dollars a month on the Bushman show.” 
Simmons wiped his chin with his coat sleeve. 

‘Til take you on at that,” said Cuddy as he hastened 
out to hire a stock car for the accommodation of his 
new purchase. 

When Cuddy returned to the auction barn at two 
o’clock circus seats, circus paraphernalia, bidders, buy¬ 
ers, auctioneer, Bushman and Salter Simmons were no¬ 
where in sight. The only visible reminder of the 
morning’s auction was Cuddy’s elephant. As Cuddy 
approached that animal, the elephant swung at him 
with his trunk. Cuddy jumped and dodged. 

“Oh ho! Tried to sap me, old-timer,” he said. “I 
thought they said you were a good bull.” He backed 
away to survey the swaying, gray bulk. The elephant 
rattled the chains around his left hind leg. It was 
cold and gloomy in the barn. Cuddy felt a sudden 
longing for human company. He peered at the rest¬ 
less pachyderm. Through the gloom he saw some¬ 
thing white on the wall near the elephant. Cautiously 
he secured possesion of it, dodging another swipe from 
the elephant as he did so. Carrying his find to a win¬ 
dow he unfolded a roughly penciled and tobacco- 
stained note and read: 

“Sorry you were stung, Guv’ner, but this here bull isn’t 
Babylon. This bull’s named Robber. He’s got the name 
of being a bad bull, an outlaw. I ain’t afraid of him but 
I got to blow him ’cause I’m working for Bushman and 
he’s got me a job with Ball. But I’ll tell you how to 
handle Robber. Don’t ever come up from behind on his 
right side cause Robber’s blind in his right eye. That 
208 




CUDDY BUYS AN ELEPHANT 


makes him nervous. So if you come up on him from 
the right side he’ll get scared and maybe sap you. Always 
come up on his left side. That’s his good side. You can 
handle him all right, then. He knows English. Just 
talk to him simple. He works with words like 'Lay down. 
Walk lame. Get up. Pivot.’ The regular routine. 
Robber’ll do about a two minutes’ single act in the ring, 
including tub work. He’ll also work with other bulls. 
But don’t forget that if any noise happens on his blind 
side he gets scared and is apt to lam. Once he starts to 
lam he’s hard to catch. Hope you can read this letter. 
Good luck. Salter Simmons. P.S. Robber hasn’t killed 
anybody I know of. Not this season.” 

The big beast swayed back and forth, back and forth 
at the end of his clanking chain. His trunk feinted 
in divers directions. Cuddy stood squarely in front 
of him, just out of reach of the trunk. He looked 
Robber in that elephant’s one good eye. It was the 
baddest good eye Cuddy had ever seen. For the first 
time Cuddy noted that Robber had two tusks, a long 
one and a short one. 

“I wonder what ‘lam’ means!” he pondered. His ex¬ 
perience with elephants had been vicarious. He had 
not heard the word “lam.” The gloom in the barn 
increased. The elephant swayed more and more. His 
trunk described figure eights in the air. The little 
finger at the trunk’s end kept curling and twisting. 
“Looks like they put one over on me,” thought Cuddy. 

“Are you tweaking your nose at me?” he demanded. 
The elephant emitted a nervous squeak. “Mice?” 
asked Cuddy. “I must get you out of this barn before 
209 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


dark. Always said I’d try anything once. Here 
goes.” 

Cuddy walked boldly up to the elephant named Rob¬ 
ber. That outlaw wrapped his trunk around Cuddy. 

“Robber,” said Cuddy in his most commanding 
voice, “for better or for worse you and I are joined 
together and let no man part us until I deliver you 
to Weed on the Calkins show.” 

Robber grunted. He shook the chains on his left 
hind leg. Robber’s little finger on the end of his trunk 
searched the pockets of Cuddy’s coat. Cuddy caressed 
the trunk. 

“You’ll like Weed/’ Cuddy continued. Salter Sim¬ 
mons had told him to talk “simple” to Robber. He’d 
talked to everything but elephants since he had joined 
the circus. “You’ll like Weed,” said Cuddy. “He’s 
a first-class animal man. Very kind-hearted is Weed. 
Not handsome, you know, but kind, especially to ani¬ 
mals. As for Miss Fortescue, she’s about the nicest 
girl and the finest artist I know of. You’ll work in her 
act if you’re good. You’ll like her, too. Immensely.” 
It struck Cuddy that he was carrying on a one-sided 
conversation. Robber again rattled his chains. 

“Oh, that’s it, Robber. You want to get out? That 
suits me. I don’t fancy spending the night in here 
with you alone. Now, go easy.” 

Cuddy slowly unwound the affectionate trunk. 
Slowly he reached up and rubbed Robber back of that 
elephant’s left ear. Robber registered pleasure. More 
slowly still Cuddy felt his way along the side of the 
210 




CUDDY BUYS AN ELEPHANT 


swaying bull whose body became more massive in the 
gathering gloom. 

“Hang the bull, ,, Cuddy muttered. “I wish he’d 
stand still a second. Why do elephants have such 
rough exteriors? Here’s where I try one of Marion 
Fortescue’s tricks/’ He reached up and tentatively 
scratched the elephant’s bulging side. The result was 
all he could have desired. The elephant’s skin rippled. 
Its sides fairly shook. “I hoped I might make you 
see a joke,” said Cuddy, “and now that you’re good- 
natured— ” He bent down and unhooked the chain 
from Robber’s left hind leg. Then he cautiously stood 
up and tickled Robber’s ribs once more. Robber 
rumbled. “First time I ever heard an elephant laugh,’* 
thought Cuddy. His head encountered something 
hard on the edge of the stall. He reached up back of 
his head, and brought down an elephant hook. “Now 
that was very decent of Salter Simmons,” he said. 
Then to Robber: “Come on, Robber, let’s go.” 

Cuddy gently hooked Robber in the trunk. Rob¬ 
ber refused to move. “Must be some way out of this 
situation,” said Cuddy. Robber once more felt in 
Cuddy’s pockets. “He wants food,” thought Cuddy, 
and went in search of some. Ten minutes later Cuddy 
was back in the barn with an armful of bread. He 
held a loaf toward Robber. Robber advanced and 
took it. “Eureka!” shouted Cuddy. Robber fol¬ 
lowed him to the doors. Cuddy opened them wide. 
There was plenty of room but Robber refused to pass. 
A small boy appeared on the scene. Cuddy was in- 
211 



CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


spired. “Ever see a pet elephant before?” he asked 
the urchin. 

“Seen ’em in a circus,” the urchin answered. His 
bare toes wiggled with excitement. 

“Ever had one to play with?” suggested Cuddy. 

“Nope, not never.” 

“Then I’ll show you a new game, buddy,” Cuddy 
said in soft-voiced confidence. “Here’s the way we’ll 
play it. This is my pet elephant, Robber. He’s very 
fond of little boys. I’m taking him home to the Pan¬ 
handle yards. You can go along ahead of us and 
feed him this bread. When we get home I’ll give you 
this nice five-dollar bill. How’s that for a game? I’ll 
walk along by his side and prod him with this hook.” 

“Some fun, I bet,” quoth the urchin. 

Cuddy blessed the fates that gave him a dark night 
and an illy lighted road to his destination in the rail¬ 
road yards. He was in no mood to lead a procession 
through the streets of Chicago. He blessed the kind- 
hearted brakeman who helped him find a platform 
from which Robber could be loaded into the waiting 
stock-car. He blessed the good fairies who made his 
way easy in the matter of waybills, freight charges and 
the other details incident to his departure. Then, as 
the freight train with his car and its burden rolled out 
of the yards and started for the east, he found a nice 
soft spot on the floor of the car, thirty feet from his 
elephantine charge and, wrapping himself in the mantle 
of exhaustion, curled up and routed himself into the 
Land of Nod. 


212 




XVII 

A BAD BULL LAMS 


F OUR days thereafter a travel-tired elephant 
named Robber and a travel-sore young man 
named Cuddy, peeking through the sides of a 
frightfully tiresome stock car at Painesville, Ohio, 
feasted their red-rimmed eyes upon the spreading can¬ 
vas of Calkins’ Classical Circus. Cuddy, his private 
car and its great, gray burden, had missed the show 
at Auburn, Indiana, on Monday; at Fostoria, Ohio, 
on Tuesday; at Lorain, Ohio, on Wednesday. For 
four days Cuddy had acted as nurse and chef to his 
pachydermic charge. Cuddy had lived on such meals 
as he could hastily snatch at railroad stations. Rob¬ 
ber had lived entirely upon the bread which Cuddy 
proffered. Robber would eat in no other way. He 
had grown passionately fond of his new master. 
Cuddy had gotten his fill of elephants. 

Feebly the master of Calkins’ Circus fell out of the 
stock car, shook his benumbed limbs and crawled 
toward the circus tents. Robber trumpeted his pro¬ 
test at being left alone. Feebly Cuddy limped into the 
presence of his boss animal-man. 

‘‘Weed,” said Cuddy as that time-tried animal 
213 


CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


trainer stared at the ghost of his circus boss, “go and 
get that bull you bunked me into buying. And remem¬ 
ber, Weed, that bull’s name isn’t Babylon, it’s Robber, 
and he’s a bad one. Don’t come up on him from the 
right side or he’ll lam.’’ Whereupon Cuddy sank on to 
a bale of hay and into a comatose condition. 

Journeying east toward New England territory, 
Calkins’ Classical Circus, Mammoth Menagerie, Mu¬ 
seum of Monstrosities and Free Horse Fair showed 
to profit-paying thousands at Meadville, Pennsylvania, 
and at Jamestown, Corning, Ithaca and Troy, New 
York. It was a beautiful territory in which to troup 
—over the Pennsylvania Hills, through the lake region 
of central New York and into the Hudson River 
Valley. 

By the time the show reached Nashua, New Hamp¬ 
shire, Cuddy was able to look upon the world with an 
unjaundiced eye, but he hated Robber with a deep, 
undying hatred. That half-blind pachyderm lamented 
and was discontented unless Cuddy was with him. 
Never was sound affection so sadly misplaced, so lack¬ 
ing in return. 

“Do you really think you’ve got to put that outlaw, 
Robber, into Miss Fortescue’s act?” Cuddy demanded 
of Weed for the fiftieth time. 

“That Robber bull’s perfectly safe and Rajah isn’t,” 
Weed insisted, as he began to rewind his elephant 
hook. “Miss Fortescue and I have rehearsed Robber 
for a week with the other two bulls, Baldy and King. 
There’s no chance of his lamming if you handle him 
214 




A BAD BULL LAMS 


right. It just takes a little change in the routine. You 
know how these bulls work. Every move the trainer 
makes in the ring means some move for them to make. 
We've changed the routine for Robber just enough 
so that Miss Fortescue always comes up on his left 
side where he can see her. That's all there is to it." 

“Why don’t you take Miss Fortescue out of that 
elephant act?" demanded Cuddy. “She’s too fine an 
artist to be working in an animal-act like that, taking 
such chances." 

“You know how it is, Guv’ner." Weed continued 
to rewind his elephant hook. “There isn’t one woman 
in a thousand who can go through the same routine 
twice a day without forgetting something or making 
some change in the way she works the act. That’s 
the trouble with women performers. But Miss For¬ 
tescue, she’s always just the same. You can depend 
on her to do just what she’s told to do." 

“I don’t like it," Cuddy insisted. “Having her 
handling elephants. And Manson, who broke her into 
the business, is dead against it." 

“It’s fun for her, Guv’ner. She’s only twenty years 
old and she’s not afraid of anything and she’s never 
had any trouble with an elephant yet." 

“If she ever does, Weed, particularly with this Rob¬ 
ber bull, and I can catch you afterward, I’ll kill you." 
Cuddy tightened his hold on the animal trainer’s arm. 

“I understand, Guv’ner," Weed said, laying down 
his elephant hook, standing up and putting a hand on 
Cuddy’s shoulder. “But there’s no one on the show 
215 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


more thought of than Marion Fortescue and there’s 
no one on the show that thinks more of her than I do. 
I’ve known her since she was ten years old. Nothing 
will happen to her. I’ll be responsible. Ask her how 
she feels about it.” 

Cuddy did ask Marion that Sunday afternoon. They 
sat on canvas chairs in the shade of a tree at the cor¬ 
ner of the circus lot, apart from the troupers and the 
usual Sunday crowd of towners. 

“1’m not trying to direct your professional work 
just because I’m owner and manager of this show and 
you happen to be drawing a salary from me,” he com¬ 
menced. “But I’ve not been reconciled to your han¬ 
dling elephants from the first time I saw you in the 
ring. Even laying aside the element of danger, which 
you refuse to consider, the whole thing goes against 
my grain. You’re not the type for that kind of an 
act. Your riding, wire walking, aerial work—that is 
all pure artistry. It is as beautiful as yourself. Even 
your friend, Manson, agrees with me on that.” 

Marion’s cheeks became a deeper pink. “That’s a 
very nice way of putting it,” she said. “Only leave 
Mr. Manson out of it.” 

“Well, don’t you agree with me, except as to Man- 
son?” 

“In part,” she answered. “I know it seems awfully 
queer to you that I should be an elephant trainer. I 
sometimes think that way about it myself, but you must 
remember I have been doing that sort of thing for 
216 




A BAB BULL LAMS 


many years. Pm much happier in my other work, but 
I cling to animal acts. Do you know why?” 

“I can’t imagine,” said Cuddy, deftly catching and 
crushing a yellow butterfly which had settled on his 
knee. 

“I think it’s because those elephants could smash 
me just as you’ve smashed that poor flying thing,” she 
answered. “I suppose all of us like to have some kind 
of power. You like the power that keeps you at the 
head of this circus, although circus life is far from 
any you knew three months ago. Lawyers like to 
show their power over witnesses and jury. Bankers 
like to show their power over those who borrow from 
them. I like to show my power over those big beasts 
who stand on their heads at the crack of my whip. It’s 
just the cave man in all of us.’* 

“And you want to go through with this Robber idea 
—put that outlaw bull in your elephant act to-morrow?” 

“Why not ? I’m not afraid of him, and he is of me.” 

“I give up, Miss Fortescue,” said Cuddy. “Robber 
goes into the act to-morrow. What book are you 
reading?” 

Her cheeks grew rosier as he took the book from 
her hands. 

“I didn’t know you read Macaulay, Miss Fortescue.” 

“I’ve been reading a great deal during the past three 
months,” she confessed. 

“What besides Macaulay?” 

“Well, anything I find in the bookstores. Dickens, 
Robin Hood, Chesterton, James Whitcomb Riley, The 
217 



CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


Idylls of the King, Stevenson, Henry James. Jules 
Turner, the clown, helps pick them out.” 

''Not James! Do you understand him?” 

“I think so. I’m trying, with Jules’ help. He likes 
to read.” 

“You have more optimism than I,” Cuddy declared. 

“I have no one but Jules to tell me what to read,” 
she answered. 

“Do you read stories about wild animals?” 

“No. What I know about them I learn at first 
hand.” 

“It’s quite the fad now to read Coue and others on 
auto-suggestion, self-help, self-analysis, you know.” 

“I don’t think that comes from books.” 

“And novels? Love stories?” 

“I’d rather get that part of life from life itself.” 

Cuddy leaned toward her and gently replaced the 
Macaulay in her hands. Their fingers touched. 

“Perhaps you’re right, Miss Fortescue,” he said. 
They sat in silence while he finished his cigarette. 
“Please be careful to-morrow,” he cautioned as he left 
her to confer with Rony Gavin on some plans proposed 
by that assistant general manager. 

“Of course,” she answered. “That’s part of the 
business. And you see how Robber is—perfectly gen¬ 
tle, he’s a pet.” 

Robber, the outlaw elephant, had indeed become the 
pet of the show. Eight days in the Sunday school 
atmosphere of Calkins’ Classical Circus had apparently 
reformed him. Whatever his record might have been 
218 




A BAD BULL LAMS 


—and Weed had looked it up and found it bad—the 
big beast was the friendliest, most tractable of animals. 
He made up with Rajah, the elephant he replaced in 
the trained elephant act. He became quite pally with 
Baldy and King, his new performing partners. He 
went through the routine of rehearsals as if he en¬ 
joyed them as much as the audiences were supposed 
to enjoy the future performances. He responded 
promptly to every signal Marion gave him. He pushed 
heavy baggage wagons around the lot with ease and 
alacrity. Every person on the show from Cracker jack 
Cullen, the candy butcher, to Jules Turner, the dean of 
clown alley, played with him in off hours. 

“There’s a lot of bunk about bad bulls,” Weed ex¬ 
plained to Cuddy. “All this Robber bull’s been need¬ 
ing was a good trainer. I can do anything with him, 
so long as I remember that blind right eye. This last 
rehearsal’s proved that.” 

“Robber handles better than any elephant I ever 
worked in the ring,” Marion insisted as she waited, 
frocked and booted, at the dressing-room door for the 
opening of the elephant act. 

Ganwell’s band crashed into an introductory march. 
The gigantic gray trio in single file paced rapidly 
around the hippodrome track from menagerie tent 
to ring curb. Marion ran into the ring, saluted the 
audience, and put the elephants through their paces. 
As though they had always performed together, old 
Baldy, King and Robber stood on their heads, waltzed, 
lay on their sides, sat on the great blue tubs, stood on 
219 



CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


their hind legs and went through the routine in per¬ 
fect unison. 

Cuddy, sitting in the reserved seats, twenty feet from 
the ring, bade his fears depart. Weed, standing at the 
ring side, congratulated himself on his good judgment 
in adding Robber to the act. Marion, running back¬ 
ward and forward in the ring, cracking her whip and 
calling her commands with accustomed precision, was 
elated as to the nicety with which her new charge re¬ 
sponded. The circus audience, knowing nothing of the 
dangerous experiment made before their eyes, gave the 
girl “hand” after “hand.” The performance went so 
smoothly that even the show people clustered in the 
connection between big top and menagerie and at the 
door to the dressing room, watching “the new bull 
being worked,” forgot what every showman knows— 
that an elephant, most timid of beasts, is apt to do 
anything under the influence of stage or other fright. 
Frequently he reverts to form, especially if he is 
startled. 

Robber gave no signs of fright or poor memory. He 
put a snap into his work that appealed to professionals 
and lay spectators. Marion nodded gayly to Cuddy. 
He smiled happily in reply. If she insisted on doing 
that sort of thing, he was glad she could do it so well. 

And then it happened, so quickly that no one could 
interfere. Marion forgot her instructions. Coming 
up from behind and on the blind side of Robber, as in 
the old routine of the act, Marion cracked her whip, 
threw herself on a rug in the center of the ring, and 
220 




A BAD BULL LAMS 


gave the signal for Robber to lie down over her. The 
elephant shied, then steadied himself. 

In obedience to his cue, Robber swung around and 
with legs far apart started to shuffle gingerly to a posi¬ 
tion directly above Marion’s prostrate form. Then, 
at the moment when he should have gently lowered his 
body over hers, he dropped to his fore knees, plunged 
his tusks into her, wrapped his trunk around her body 
and threw her from him. With that terrifying speed 
which a mad elephant can exhibit, he dashed after his 
prey and plunged his tusks again into Marion’s body 
as it lay in a little hollow outside the ring curb. 

Circusmen act involuntarily in moments of crisis. 
Weed’s two helpers hooked Baldy and King and pulled 
them toward the menagerie, while Weed leaped toward 
Robber and hooked that infuriated beast as deep as the 
steel point of his bull hook would go. Jules Turner, 
clown by profession and hero through opportunity, 
seizing a torch used in the lion act, lighted it as he 
ran toward Robber and thrust it into the elephant’s 
mouth. Robber arose from his victim and charged 
at Turner and Weed who fled into the menagerie, 
where the fleeing men dashed between Baldy and King. 
Those elephants, in obedience to commands, closed in 
on Robber as he followed the clown and trainer. Then 
good elephants and animal trainers fought it out with 
the elephant that had gone bad, and finally beat him 
into submission. 

Leaping from the audience which had become a hor¬ 
ror-stricken mob, Cuddy lifted Marion in his arms and 
221 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


carried her to the pad room. She had fainted. Blood 
flowed from her side, her arms. Frantically Cuddy 
called for the circus physician as he laid her on some 
blankets in the pad room. Montrose Manson and 
others of the male performers battled to keep the mor¬ 
bid mob at bay. Jenny Adams, the wardrobe woman, 
bent over Marion in a first effort to stop the flow of 
blood. Dr. Richards, the circus physician, arrived and 
took charge of the case. Gan well’s band, in the circus 
tent, pounded away at a stirring march. Cuddy, 
dazedly looking down at the broken body, felt some one 
touch him on the shoulder. It was Manson. “Shall 
we go on with the performance?” Manson asked. 

Cuddy continued to gaze mutely at Marion. The 
girl opened her eyes. She tried to speak. Cuddy bent 
down until his ears were close to Marion’s lips. “Go 
on with the show,” she whispered. Cuddy nodded to 
Manson. Custom must be honored with custom. His 
whole being rebelled at the show that must go on. He 
heard Lou Riley, true to circus traditions, announcing 
from the ring curb: “Ladies and gentlemen: You will 
be glad to know that Miss Marion Fortescue has suf¬ 
fered only slight injuries and that the elephants are 
now quieted. There is positively no danger to any 
one. Please keep your seats. The performance will 
proceed.” 

In the pad room Cuddy asked: “What’s the verdict, 
Dr. Richards?” 

“I’ve done what I can do here. An ambulance has 


222 




A BAD BULL LAMS 


been sent for. She must be taken to the hospital at 
once,” the physician answered. 

“Whether she gets well or not, you’ll settle with 
me for this!” It was Manson, his white teeth set hard 
in a gray face. 

Cuddy sat rigidly on a chair in the hall outside the 
operating room two hours after the lamming of Rob¬ 
ber, the bad bull. In being there at that time he broke 
a fixed rule of the hospital but he had convinced the 
attendants that he would break that rule or some of 
their heads. As Cuddy the showman he was more 
addicted to direct action than as Cuddy the collegian. 
He clung to his chair in the hallway because Marion 
Fortescue was on the operating table. No matter how 
bad the news which would come from that operating 
room, he, Clarence Cuddington Cotter, must be the 
first to hear about it. He, above all others, was re¬ 
sponsible for the crippling of the girl who lay within. 

He could not forget the wickedness of Robber’s little 
pig eyes. The good eye, the left eye, was toward 
Cuddy as Robber lunged the second time at Marion. 
Cuddy knew now the full meaning of “seeing red.” 

He dared not think of the consequences of his weak¬ 
ness in permitting Marion to go into the ring with an 
outlaw elephant. Marion had probably paid the pen¬ 
alty for his weakness and her daring. The responsi¬ 
bility was wholly his. He could have prevented the 
affair. He wondered whom he must notify in case 
of Marion’s death—who meant the most to her—the 
circus people or the New Yorkers, the Conderbilts. 

223 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


She was very young, very pretty and very full of the 
love of life to leave it all. And he was to blame. 
Cuddy condemned himself in dry-eyed grief. 

A door opened. Dr. Richards appeared. Cuddy 
pounced on him. “Tell me,” he demanded. “Tell 

_ it 

me. 

Dr. Richards took him into an adjoining room. 
“Steady yourself, my boy,” the physician said to his 
employer. 

“For the love of God, out with it,” Cuddy com¬ 
manded. 

“It’s not as bad as we thought,” Dr. Richards said. 
“It is a miracle that she was not killed. All that saved 
her was the fact that Robber had but one good tusk, 
which missed her the first time and when he lunged 
at her the second time she was protected, a little, by the 
ditch in which she lay.” 

“She will live, Dr. Richards?” 

“We think so.” 

“When can I see her?” 

“Perhaps to-morrow.” 

“Thank God for that!” said Cuddy fervently. 

But Cuddy did not see Marion for two days. On 
the first day he left the show at Manchester and mo¬ 
tored to the hospital at Nashua only to get a message 
from the sick room. 

“Miss Fortescue is too ill to be seen by any one 
to-day. She says you must stay with the show.” Dr. 
Richards delivered the message. 

224 




A BAD BULL LAMS 


“Is she showing any improvement ?” Cuddy asked 
with anguish in his voice. 

“A little.” 

“You stay on this case until I tell you to come away,” 
was Cuddy’s order to his physician, “and see that the 
flowers I send each day reach her room. You’ll have 
plenty of money to cover all expenses. I’ll be back to¬ 
morrow, with Jenny Adams, who will remain.” 

At four o’clock the following afternoon Cuddy was 
at the hospital door. 

“How did you get here from Concord ?” Dr. Rich¬ 
ards inquired. 

“I came down by motor. It’s only thirty miles,” 
Cuddy answered. “Now may I see her?” 

“For five minutes,” Dr. Richards announced. 

Although he was prepared by what Dr. Richards 
had told him, Cuddy almost lost his courage when he 
recognized in the pale, drawn face on the pillow the 
once rosy chubbiness of Marion Fortescue. He knew 
it was she by her hair of Tuscan gold and by her 
deep-blue eyes like the blue of the Mexican Gulf. But 
she seemed a broken thing indeed as she lay in her 
bandages and in her pain. Jenny began to cry. Cuddy 
turned away to choke his own tears back. 

“Please don’t do that, Jenny.” It was Marion’s 
voice, very faint, but Marion’s. 

“Miss Fortescue, I’d give anything in the world if 
I were there instead of you.” It was Cuddy. He never 
could express himself in moments of deep emotion. 

“I’m going to be all right,” Marion replied. “I’m 
225 





CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


not done for by any means. Robber tore my side. 
That’s why I’m not allowed to talk, except for these 
few minutes. He broke my right shoulder and right 
wrist and, the doctor says, three ribs. Rather enough, 
I suppose. But he didn’t kill me.” 

'‘You suffer terribly?” This from Cuddy. 

“Tell them on the show that I’ll be back in the ring 
in a month.” Marion’s voice was almost a whisper, 
but there was no question about her determination. 

“They’ve sent you this,” said Cuddy. He stepped 
into the hall and returned with an enormous floral 
piece. Cuddy had conveyed it from Concord with 
difficulty. It was a horseshoe four feet wide. 

Marion smiled with tears in her eyes. Cuddy 
grinned in response. He understood Marion better 
every day. She had many saving graces—one of them 
was a sense of humor. She, whose bodily injuries 
tortured her without ceasing, could appreciate quantity 
production even in a concrete expression of sympathy. 

“It’s to bring you good luck,” he said. 

“It’s good luck that brings you,” she replied. 

“Time to go now,” Dr. Richards interjected. 

“I’ll be back to-morrow,” said Cuddy. 

“My love to the folks on the show,” whispered 
Marion. 

Cuddy reached the hospital on the following day 
determined to learn something more of Marion For- 
tescue’s past and future. He was particularly inter¬ 
ested in her past. The future, he felt, would take care 
of itself. His interest in her past was intensified by a 
226 




A BAD BULL LAMS 


letter from his Uncle Ned. Writing from his office 
in New York, that legal light referred to two telegrams 
Cuddy had sent him in response to Uncle Ned’s in¬ 
quiries as to the identity of Miss Marion Fortescue: 

‘‘Your two wires duly received [wrote Uncle Ned]. 
The first one described Miss Marion Fortescue as the 
eighth wonder of the world. The second said she was a 
performer with Calkins’ Circus and also a Conderbilt of 
New York. 

“My first inquiry as to Miss Fortescue was prompted 
by a long distance phone message from her following 
which I got in touch with some legal friends in Daws- 
ville, Virginia, who started some local wheels in motion, 
the result being that one Frazier, an attache of your show, 
was placed in jail at Dawsville. I understood from Miss 
Fortescue that you desired to have this Frazier person 
arrested and that the case was urgent. I seldom act with¬ 
out full consideration and deliberation, but Miss Fortescue, 
who seemed to know a good deal about me and my friends 
in Dawsville, persuaded me. After I had acted, it struck 
me that Miss Fortescue, whoever she was, must be an 
unusual person. Hence my inquiry. 

“Of course your first answer that she was the eighth 
wonder of the world was wholly unenlightening. Your 
second, that she was a circus performer and a Conderbilt, 
gave me something to work on. Your second statement 
seems to be correct. She is a performer with your circus, 
and is related to two very prominent circus families, the 
Tickneys and the Rawtons. But on her mother’s side 
she is also related to the Conderbilts. Through that re¬ 
lationship she could, if she cared to press the claim, 
participate rather profitably in the division of one of the 
family estates. Will give you details if you wish. 
Although I never saw Miss Fortescue, she interests me. 
227 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“Sorry I have not been able to visit you or your circus. 
As no news is good news I assume you are making good. 

“Miss Marjorie Dawson Trent has sent some letters 
to you through me, although I have given no one your 
address or your occupation. Miss Trent is a very nice girl 
and I hope you appreciate her. Personally I feel that the 
secrecy with which you surround yourself is ill advised. 
Inclosed find a letter from Marjorie. 

“Sincerely, 

“Nathaniel Cotter.” 

“So hard-mouthed old Uncle Ned is something of a 
detective,” Cuddy confessed “At least, he’s dug up 
some real dope on Marion Fortescue. But what I want 
is something about her from herself.” 

Marjorie’s message gave Cuddy almost as much of 
a shock as Marion’s injury, for it said: 

“Dearest Cuddy: 

“Life grows stranger as we grow older. I have always 
known when you have been near me. I knew you were 
near me on circus day. I could not tell how—but I knew. 
And ever since that day the rumor will not down in 
college circles that you have become a circus clown! It 
is impossible, but I must believe it. I must believe you 
clowned before me, here at Columbus College! Yes, I 
know, the idea is preposterous. But not I alone believe it. 
Many others in college do. Several of the boys and girls 
are certain they recognized you through your disguise. 
What an absurd fancy! And how well I know it is 
founded in fact. For I sensed you all that day—in the 
last place in the world you could be expected. 

“And is it for that you have been hiding, you silly, ec¬ 
centric boy! Is it for that I have been mourning you? 
228 




A BAD BULL LAMS 


Is it for that I have been seeking you through your Uncle 
Ned, through Slats Murphy, through every possible 
channel ? 

“Be sure your love will find you out. I have no idea 
why you have chosen so weird an occupation. But you 
will explain all to me—and soon—because I shall bring 
you to me. It is not seemly that maiden follow man, but 
we shall meet, be sure of that. And when we meet I shall 
cure your strange, strange malady. For to me there is 
but one. His name is Cuddy. 

“Lovingly, 

“Marjorie." 

So Marjorie loved him still! Did he love her? 

That picture of her through the college window was 
as vivid as when he, in hiding, hungered at her beauty, 
lingered on her every word, thrilled when her face 
lighted up at prospect of word of him, through Slats. 
Yes, her heart was true to him and his was true to her. 
And fate was leading him—whither ? 

“It must be as it must be," he decided. ‘Til keep 
this letter, Marjorie mine, until we meet again. But 
until then—” 

» 

Cuddy entered Marion’s room behind a mass of 
flowers. “These are my selection," he remarked. 
“They may not be quite as impressive as the floral 
horseshoe, but my heart goes with them." 

Marion’s uncrippled hand lay on the bedspread. 
Cuddy bent over it and kissed it. 

“That is a very sweet thing to do, Mr. Cotter," she 
whispered. 


229 



CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“I am thy humble knight, O Lady Fair/’ he an¬ 
swered. “Behold me on my knees before thee.” 

“And what is thy name, Sir Knight?” she responded. 

“Sir Clancelot Cotter, if it please you, Fair Lady,” 
he answered, “but my fellow knights have dubbed me 
Cuddy.” 

“Arise, Sir Cuddy, and give me news. What mes¬ 
sage bring you from the world without?” the girl re¬ 
plied. 

“Strange rumors reach me from a monster, Ned. 
He is a veritable Merlin for weird witchcraft and 
strange learning. He has it that my Maid Marion is 
of royal blood.” 

Marion raised her one good hand. “Jenny,” she 
said, “don’t you want to take your afternoon walk? 
You’ve been indoors all day, dear.” Jenny Adams, 
ancient wardrobe mistress with Calkins' Circus and 
lady in waiting to the stricken Marion Fortescue, dis¬ 
creetly vanished. 

“You may proceed, Sir Knight,” Marion directed. 

“This monster, Ned, from his cavern in dim John 
Street, sends message that you are, in faith, of the blood 
of noble Rawtons and Tickneys whose brave men and 
fair women have graced many a tented tournament in 
this sweet land. But he also bestows upon me still 
stranger tidings. You are, he says, of the royal family 
of Conderbilt and hence destined to generous wordly 
fortune. Prithee, is it so?” 

Maid Marion looked sadly upon Sir Cuddy. 

230 




A BAD BULL LAMS 


“I feared that tale might descend upon us,” she 
whispered. 

“I would that my lady spoke more plainly,” he said. 

“There are but four, not of the house of Conder- 
bilt, who know that I am of that house,” she answered. 
“Save myself there was but one, the knave, Hal 
Hawkins. He has forfeited his pledge, and brought 
the tale to you. And now the monster, Ned, he has the 
tale also.” 

“But if you are of the house of Conderbilt, what 
ill betides, Fair Lady?” 

“I will have naught of them,” the girl replied. “I 
live my gypsy life. It is my pleasure. Gypsy blood is 
in my veins.” 

“But, my Lady Fair! You do throw away great 
riches, great castles, much luxury, stables filled with 
noble steeds, beauteous balls in gorgeous costumes, 
much feasting in your ancestral halls!” protested 
Cuddy. 

“You have had all that, Sir Cuddy?” 

“Indeed, much of it, my Lady Fair.” 

“Then why do you linger in our gypsy camp?” 

“And why do you, my Lady Fair?” 

“For reason such as keeps you there.” 

“And you will be well again, for that same reason?” 

“I shall be of the world and whole again ere comes 
another moon,” affirmed the wounded one. 

Sir Clancelot Cuddy, on bended knee, kissed once 
more the hand of his Maid Marion. 

“To-day I flew to you from yon Portsmouth. I 
231 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


now return to that great city and my cavalcade,” he 
said. “When morrow comes I come to you from 
Dover through heavens as blue as your blue eyes. On 
the day that follows I fly to you from Burlington, from 
a distant land known as Vermont. And then, I lead 
my company into a country far, called Canada, thence 
into a much farther country yclept Michigan. And 
there, Fair Lady, I shall await you.” 

“My brave and gallant knight, arise,” she com¬ 
manded. “And I beg you not to grieve o’er my slight 
wounds. For in one month from this good day I 
shall, in truth, be with you.” 

And Maid Marion kept her tryst with her Sir Clance- 
lot Cuddy—and met another lady. 




CHAPTER XVIII 
CUDDY IS UNMASKED 


G UV’NER CLARENCE CUDDINGTON 
COTTER, sole owner and manager of 
Calkins’ Classical Circus, Mammoth Menag¬ 
erie, Museum of Monstrosities and Free Horse Fair, 
led his gaudy parade down the main street of Teroshey, 
Michigan, late in that glorious summer. 

Red was his feathered hat, red his satin cloak, red 
his baggy trousers, red his leathern boots. As he sat 
upon his great, gray steed, his good left arm held erect 
a staff from whose tip fluttered the escutcheoned ban¬ 
ner of the Calkins cavalcade—a lion rampant upon a 
field of gold. His right hand rested lightly on his 
horse’s neck. From beneath his feathered hat fell the 
long dark curls of a cavalier. Upon his upper lip 
bloomed two long, romantic, though false, mustaches. 
His skin was tanned by wind and weather. 

“Some disguise,” ruminated the costumed rider. 
“No one in the world would spot me for Cuddy, the 
campus favorite of Columbus College. Some class to 
this make-up. I sure am a regular showman now— 
and nothing else. Gone are the good old college days.” 

Whereupon fate, in proof that to err is human, 
brought Cuddy’s horse into contact with a pretty young 
233 


CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


lady at the exact center of the crossing of Teroshey’s 
main streets. The pretty young lady emitted a lady¬ 
like yip. Cuddy threw his horse upon its haunches. 

“I’m so sorry I frightened you. Very clumsy of 
me not to see you,” said Cuddy, lifting his feathered 
hat with a flourish as became the cavalier. 

The pretty young lady raised her eyes to Cuddy’s. 
There was a start of mutual recognition, followed by 
a blush on the cheek of the maiden, a flush on the cheek 
of the man. For the first time since he left college 
for the circus, Cuddy Cotter was looking into the eyes 
of his sometime college sweetheart, Marjorie Dawson 
Trent. 

Marjorie stopped, Cuddy stopped. The circus 
parade stopped. Cuddy’s heart stopped, and, as far 
as he was concerned, the whole universe stopped while 
he fought against a flood of memories. He leaned 
over his saddle. 

“What are you doing here ?” he demanded. 

“We have a cottage here for the summer,” she an¬ 
swered. 

“I’ve got to see you again, Marjorie. Tell me where 
you live. Quick.” 

She gave him an address, with an amazed, “It’s true, 
then, it’s true!” 

Bill Rhodes, the boss hostler, came pounding up. 

“What’s the matter, Guv’ner? Ain’t your parade 
license all right?” the boss hostler anxiously asked his 
chief. 

Cuddy came out of it with a jerk. 

234 




CUDDY IS UNMASKED 


“Sure, it’s all right, Bill. Signal them to come 
ahead. Just had a little trouble with my saddle,” Cuddy 
said. 

Marjorie passed to the other side of the street and 
was lost in the throng on the sidewalk. The band 
burst into a brassy melody. The parade proceeded on 
its gayly caparisoned way, Cuddy at its head. 

Of the thousand spectators who saw the incident, 
only one recognized its significance. That one was 
Marion Fortescue, billed as “Queen of the Arena.” 
She guided a parade team of tandem whites between 
Cuddy’s horse and the first band wagon. Marion didn’t 
miss a thing. Not where Cuddy was concerned. 

“I’ve got to square myself with Marjorie,” thought 
Cuddy as the parade wound its way through the resi¬ 
dential section of the summer resort to the pine-sur¬ 
rounded circus lot. “Four months is a long time 
without a word from me to her. Now that she knows 
where and what I am I’ve got to tell her why I left her 
as I did. I owe it to both of us. She’ll understand.” 

Cuddy turned his parade horse over to his groom 
and made for the ticket wagon. It was closed. He 
tried his key. It would not work. He rattled the 
door. 

“Who is it?” demanded Rony Gavin from within. 

“It’s Cotter,” Cuddy answered. Rony opened the 
door. 

“Come in and get a surprise party,” he said. Cuddy 
found Calkins crouching in a corner. 

“I caught this bird trying to frame something with 
235 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


the train crew,” Rony explained. “Don’t know what 
it was, but I wouldn’t put a train wreck beyond him. 
So I stuck my automatic in his ribs and here we are. 
Now what?” 

“I just came back to see the old show,” Calkins pro¬ 
tested. 

“I’ve been hoping you would,” said Cuddy. “I want 
you to sign this affidavit that you gave Sol Goldman 
a fraudulent bill of sale, after the original, to my 
father, came legally into my possession.” 

“I’ll do nothing of the kind,” Calkins snarled. 

“You will,” Cuddy answered, “because here is the 
original which I took from Goldman in Piqua weeks 
ago. My Piqua lawyer will get Goldman out of the 
Piqua jail when you sign this and he signs one like it. 
Until then you’ll both be locked up. I’m in-and-in with 
the commercial clubs and vigilance committees of this 
country and neither they, their people, nor I will stand 
for any frame-up from any grifters. What do you 
say, Calkins?” 

“I’m on,” the showman answered. “Lead me to 
your judge or whoever witnesses this thing.” 

When the ceremony had been concluded, and all 
preparations thus completed to correct the record and 
protect Cuddy as owner of Calkins’ Circus, Cuddy 
said: “Don’t let me see you anywhere around this 
show, Calkins.” 

“No chance. No chance. I’m done with the circus 
business,’’ Calkins answered hotly. “Me for some 
business where a fellow can make an honest dollar.” 
236 




CUDDY IS UNMASKED 


“What have you in mind?” Cuddy inquired. 

“Got a chance to run a hand book in Chicago,” 
Calkins answered. 

“Right in your line,” said Cuddy, and saw Calkins 
no more. 

Bings Balter, circus press agent, reported to Cuddy: 

“There’ll be two hundred of those orphans at the 
afternoon show. They were tickled stiff because we 
routed the parade past the orphanage. I’m allowing 
only twenty attendants this time. Last season when 
we showed this town we passed in two hundred orphans 
and two hundred attendants.” 

“You handle them on the front door, Balter. Charge 
all the peanuts they want to the show. Get that, Rony ? 
Bring the peanut bill to me after the kids are filled up. 
I’ll O.K. it. And, Balter, see that those orphaned kids 
have reserved seats whether we sell out or not. Put 
the crippled ones in the front row. And, Balter, will 
you please tell that new man in charge of reserved 
seats, to hold out four for me in the center section. I 
may have a party this afternoon. And, Rony, if any¬ 
body asks for me I’ll not be on the lot until the after¬ 
noon opening. Have some business downtown.” 
Cuddy started for Main Street. 

“Miss Fortescue just asked for you, Guv’nor. Said 
she’d be in the dressing room.” 

Cuddy was expecting that message. He had not 
spoken to Marion since Marjorie and he stopped the 
parade. But he had not avoided Marion. There was 
no opportunity to speak to her on parade and every one 
237 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


is busy when the parade reaches the circus lot. He 
knew exactly what he wanted to say to Marion. 

She was sitting on a wardrobe trunk wearing the 
neat white costume she always wore when she 
took the white tandem team on parade. Her white- 
plumed hat rested on the trunk beside her. Her hair 
of Tuscan gold curled as it always curled in fair or 
stormy weather. In one gauntleted hand she held a 
long-lashed whip with which she flecked a dogcart at 
the other side of the pad room. Roger, her favorite 
airedale, lay at her feet. 

“You saw the girl I nearly rode over downtown this 
morning ?” Cuddy began. 

She nodded. 

“That’s a very dear old friend of mine. I owe her 
a great, a humble, apology. Not for this morning, but 
for something far more serious. Something that has 
to do with college days/’ 

“She — is — a — very — dear — old — friend — of 
— yours?” 

Cuddy knew that when Marion drawled she had 
much upon her mind. 

“Very,” he said. 

“She is very pretty.” 

“Yes.” 

“You knew her before you came on the show?” 

“Yes.” 

“You have not seen her since?” 

“Only from what you might call a distance.” 

“Nor heard from her?” 

238 




CUDDY IS UNMASKED 


“Two or three times.” 

“Has she heard from you?” 

“No, Marion. Not since I came on the show.’" 

“I should like to meet her.” 

“You shall, this afternoon, if I can get her on the 
lot.” 

“Will you mention me—when you see her?” 

“Yes. Of course.” 

“She will come.” 

Cuddy hastened to the street, leaped into a taxi and 
sped toward Majorie’s address. 

Marjorie was waiting for him. “I knew you would 
come back to me/’ she whispered. 

Marjorie’s father, mother and Cousin Caroline were 
cool. So was the cottage which was restful and quiet 
after the heat, noise and dust of the teeming circus 
lot. The luncheon served on delicate china and linen 
was not so ample as Calkins’ Circus cookhouse af¬ 
forded, “but it’s a darned sight more dainty,” thought 
Cuddy. It was the first time he had dined “off the 
lot” for weeks. 

“This is much more than I deserve,” said Cuddy. 
“At least, it must seem much more to you. You were 
surprised, Marjorie, when you recognized me—in that 
circus costume?” 

“It was a terrible shock/’ Marjorie replied. “How 
can you do it? First you are clown, then cavalier. 

And still you are Cuddy.” 

Cuddy concentrated on his salad. “I was a fool to 
239 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


leave the circus lot,” he thought. “And yet I know 
she loves me—and I her.” 

“The world swallowed you after your letter to me 
last spring,” Marjorie resumed. “No one could find 
a trace of you. Your Uncle Ned would say nothing, 
save that he would try to have my letters reach you. 
The letters did not come back but no word came from 
you. There were many rumors about college. Some 
reflected on you, some on me. It was very difficult— 
to keep faith in you.” 

“You and your family felt that my conduct—the 
manner of leaving you and college—was not, well, quite 
honorable?” Cuddy was coming to his own defense. 

“I’m afraid so,” she answered. “And then you 
clowned before me!” 

“You said you were suddenly without funds, but 
that was hardly sufficient excuse for an absolute dis¬ 
appearance,” said Mr. Trent with church-warden dig¬ 
nity. “And your—reappearance,” he added. 

“And when a boy hides from all his friends, in and 
out of college, his friends sometimes find difficulty in 
defending him,” interposed Mrs. Trent, “especially 
when he returns—in this fashion.” 

“I don’t want to be rude to a guest in our house, but 
we felt you were not quite fair to us,” said Cousin 
Caroline. “We all thought so very much of you,” she 
added. 

Cuddy winced. Could he make his Marjorie under¬ 
stand ? He must. 

“When the silver spoon from which I had always 
240 




CUDDY IS UNMASKED 


eaten was suddenly whisked from my mouth, I had to 
drop out of my old life,” he expostulated. “I couldn't 
go on, the way I had, without money.” 

‘‘Money isn’t always everything,” asserted Marjorie. 

“That is easily said by one who has always had all 
the money she wanted.” 

“Cuddy!” 

“Neither you, Mr. Trent, nor you, Mrs. Trent, nor 
you, Cousin Carrie, would have been willing to have 
Marjorie marry a penniless man.” Cuddy’s back was 
to the wall. He began to warm up. 

“But you might have told us where you were,’’ said 
Marjorie. 

“Not until I made good. You would not have under¬ 
stood,” said Cuddy doggedly. “I’ll tell you everything 
now.” He hastily outlined his life from the day of 
his majority when he inherited a circus—and nothing 
else—a circus that had absorbed all his father’s fortune. 
He hinted at the months of battling with a grifting 
circus gang, muddy show grounds, train wrecks, run¬ 
aways, wild animals, storms, and continued hostility 
of man and the elements. They listened patiently, 
politely. “And so I finally got rid of Calkins, Gold¬ 
man and the grifters,” he added with pride. 

“I want you all to come to the show as my guests 
this afternoon,” said Cuddy in conclusion. There 
was a marked pause. Cuddy felt that he hadn’t put it 
over. 

“We really are not very much interested in circuses,” 
241 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


said Mr. Trent, “and I am matched in a golf tourna¬ 
ment this afternoon.” 

“I haven’t played golf since April,” sighed Cuddy. 

“Carrie and I are to be entertained on the Fair¬ 
banks’ yacht at four,” said Mrs. Trent. 

“Suppose some of my old Chicago chums will be 
there,’’ thought Cuddy. 

“I’ve an engagement for tennis at three,” said Miss 
Marjorie Dawson Trent, looking wistfully at her 
Cuddy. 

Cuddy hungered to try his good right wrist on a 
tennis court. 

He knew he was as much out of that picture in the 
cool summer cottage of the Trents as he had been out 
of the picture the day he entered the circus world. But 
he was determined to justify himself with Marjorie. 
He had to. There was too much between them. 

“Please come out and see my circus, Marjorie?” 

“I saw your circus once. All circuses look alike to 
me. They tire me,” she replied. 

“They wouldn’t if you saw the real inside of a 
circus once—mine, for instance. Of course we live 
our lives a long way apart,” said Cuddy. “I know how 
you and your set look upon the circus business. I 
was once in that set, you know. And there’s just one 
way for you to understand what I did last spring and 
what I have been doing since. You must come to the 
show—my show—with me this afternoon, Marjorie.” 

“I really can’t do it,” said Marjorie, glancing at her 
watch. 


242 




CUDDY IS UNMASKED 


° ‘There’s a girl with the show I want you to meet. 
She's a most remarkable girl," insisted Cuddy. 

“Who is she?’* 

“She rides the high-school horses and works the 
bulls. I beg your pardon, I mean she handles the 
elephants. She also works in the butterfly act and 
walks the wire. She’s the somersault flier in the 
return act. She’s the most finished performer in our 
dressing room.’’ 

“What is her name?’’ 

“Miss Marion Fortescue.’’ 

“How quaint!’’ Marjorie was a bit bored. “Is she 
interesting ?” 

“I’m terribly fond of her,’’ said Cuddy. 

“I think I’ll go to Cuddy’s circus,’’ declared Mar¬ 
jorie with sudden animation. “Cuddy, this is the 
final test of my love for you.’’ 

Cuddy had kept his taxi waiting. They reached the 
circus grounds in record time. 

“And you really like this sort of thing, Cuddy dear?” 

“Crazy about it.’’ 

Marjorie and Cuddy were on the circus lot with its 
dust, heat and jostling. In front of them a capacity 
crowd sought simultaneous entrance into the afternoon 
performance. Summer resorters, townspeople, fam¬ 
ilies from the backwoods milled together at the doors. 

To the right of Marjorie and her host the negro 
side-show band blared offensively. Doc Inman barked 
his enticing ballyhoo and slapped with his suggestive 
243 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


stick the blatant banners picturing the pleasant freaks 
within the side-show tent. 

Marjorie gazed with disgust at the garish portraits 
of the fat girl, the dwarfed man, the “Den of Hideous 
Reptiles,” the “Tattooed Princess” and other features 
of Calkins’ Museum of Monstrosities. 

“You can’t mean that you like this sort of thing, 
Cuddy!” 

“You bet!” 

“Not all of it,” she insisted. “Not a boy reared as 
carefully as you. You liked the finer things of life, 
art, music, literature, when I knew you in college.” 

Cuddy hedged a little. 

“I won’t say I like all of the circus game,” he ad¬ 
mitted. “I don’t like the side show at all, but I’m not 
big enough yet to get along without it. It’s sort of a 
necessary evil. There’s nothing immoral about it, you 
know. It’s just a sad commentary on human nature 
that people want to pay for seeing any kind of a freak. 
They have, since history began, and they will when 
the world is on the border of the millennium.” 

He guided her skillfully through the throng. Rony 
Gavin, selling tickets with both hands, nodded and 
smiled as Guv’ner Cotter and his lady fair passed the 
ticket wagon. Rony, who saw all things, saw more 
than an ordinary “courtesy to the press” in Cuddy’s 
attitude toward Miss Marjorie Dawson Trent though 
he knew not her name or whence she came. 

“See anything familiar about this circus?” he asked. 

244 




CUDDY IS UNMASKED 


“Looks just like it did at Columbus College,” she 
answered. 

“It’ll look a lot different to you when you come to 
know it,” he assured her. 

Cuddy unhooked a chain across the private entrance 
at the side of the marquee and guided Marjorie into 
the menagerie. 

“Heavens, Cuddy! Can’t you get a little air into 
this tent?” she exclaimed with kerchief to nose. Cuddy 
was chagrined. 

“That’s what I thought the first time I came in here,” 
he admitted. “It’s a combination of lions, tigers and 
other cat animals, the monks, seals, elephants and all 
that, to say nothing of our illustrious patrons. But 
I’ve grown so used to it that I don’t notice it, even on 
a hot day like this. Won’t you say hello to my old 
pal, Hank, the monk?” 

A tiny ring-tailed monkey clung to his cage bars 
and chattered to Cuddy. 

“You certainly have changed since you took me to 
the Junior ‘Prom,’ ” said Marjorie. 

“Guess I have,” said Cuddy to her. Then to him¬ 
self, “But I’m not a tea hound any more.” 

From within the main tent came the call of a bugle. 

“That’s the signal for the grand entree. The show’s 
about to begin. Let’s hurry,” urged the circus mag¬ 
nate. She paused with reluctant feet where the men¬ 
agerie and the big top meet. 

“Oh, come on, Marjorie,” pleaded Cuddy. “You 
must see Marion. She rides the rear horse of the 
245 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


white tandem at the very beginning of the grand en¬ 
tree. You saw her at Columbus College but you’ll 
really know her now. I owe very much to her.” 

Marjorie kept pace with Cuddy as he trudged along 
the sawdust-sprinkled hippodrome track to the seats 
awaiting them. 

“There she comes!” he exclaimed. “I’m what they 
call a seasoned trouper now, but I always get a thrill 
out of the ‘opening spectacle.’ Don’t you feel it?” 

“Which is Marion Fortescue?” was Marjorie’s re¬ 
sponse. 

“That one coming around the end, just back of the 
band. See that white tandem team! She’s riding the 
rear horse. See her! In the white habit. The one 
with the curly hair. The hair of Tuscan gold!” 

“Cuddy,” demanded Marjorie, with her eyes fixed 
on the approaching equestrienne, “who helped you 
evolve that Tuscan gold idea? I never heard you use 
just those words, but they do remind me of last spring 
on the college campus.” 

Cuddy’s brown cheeks turned to red. 

“It is a Tuscan gold,” he insisted, “and I thought 
of it myself.” 

“I should never have thought of it—in this case,” 
remarked Cuddy’s sometime college sweetheart. 

The densely packed “blue seats” and “reserves” rose 
with enthusiasm to the brilliancy of the opening spec¬ 
tacle as the procession passed around the hippodrome 
track. “The Queen of Sheba,” the circus posters called 
the spectacle. The queen had been played by Marion 
246 




CUDDY IS UNMASKED 


when Cuddy first saw the show. Marion had been 
dressed for the part in Oriental fashion and was borne 
on a litter by four willing slaves, from the crew of 
colored canvasmen. Shortly after Cuddy became ac¬ 
tual instead of theoretical possessor of his circus, he 
affected a change in the cast. He didn’t fancy Marion 
in that particular queenly role. “It’s too e—er—ex¬ 
otic,” he explained to her. 

Now his Queen of the Arena passed him on her 
milk-white steed without a glance in his direction. 
She knew how to hold her head high and her eyes front, 
did Marion Fortescue. If she saw Cuddy and Mar¬ 
jorie seated side by side in the reserved-seat section, 
she gave no sign. Cuddy felt a tightening in his 
throat. In all their months on the lot together, Marion 
had never failed to smile as she passed him. 

Marion and the new Queen of Sheba and her motley 
escort disappeared through the red curtains of the 
dressing-room entrance. The comedy mules and their 
hardy but unsuccessful riders competed for the plau¬ 
dits of the multitude. They retired amid riotous laugh¬ 
ter and were succeeded in rings and on stage by the 
skillfully equipoised Japs, whose feats of balancing 
and juggling were rewarded by enthusiastic applause. 
The show was going well. 




CHAPTER XIX 
MARJORIE MEETS MARION 


“nC7 ILL y° u come i nto dressing room and 
YY ^et Marion ?” 

Marjorie jumped. She had been dream¬ 
ing. Dreaming of the days with Cuddy in college class 
rooms. The evenings with Cuddy making fudge in the 
co-eds’ dormitory. Of other evenings with Cuddy 
when their canoe floated on the moonlit lake and he 
sang to the strumming of her guitar. Of still other 
evenings when they danced as only they of all the col¬ 
lege couples could dance. She was ages from the noise, 
the crowd and the excitement of a circus tent until 
Cuddy said: 

“Will you come into the dressing room and meet 
Marion?” 

Still walking as if in sleep, she suffered herself to 
be paraded around the hippodrome track with Cuddy 
at her elbow. She was vaguely conscious of exchang¬ 
ing greetings with friends who saluted her with amused 
grins and comments from the tiers of encircling seats. 
Of course that meant nothing. Any one was apt to 
cut tennis for a circus. And none of her crowd in 
the summer resort knew of her college affair with her 
present guide, philosopher and friend. She realized 
248 


MARJORIE MEETS MARION 


that Cuddy was trembling as the attendants pulled aside 
the curtains and the one-time college boy and his one¬ 
time college girl entered that realm of paint and 
spangles so intriguing to the average person—the circus 
dressing tent. 

“Miss Marion Fortescue is wanted.” 

Jenny Adams, wardrobe mistress, at word from 
Guv’ner Cotter, thus paged the circus performer after 
poking a head inside a canvas flap marked “Ladies’ 
Dressing Room,” while they waited in the pad room. 

Miss Marion Fortescue promptly appeared. She had 
made a quick change from riding habit to ballet cos¬ 
tume of light blue. In her hand was a bright blue 
parasol. On her feet high-heeled, wooden-soled pumps. 
Her hair of Tuscan gold was done high on her head 
and held there with a great golden comb. Her arms and 
shoulders were bare. There was nothing wrong with 
her color or her lines. Marion was well aware of that. 

“Marion, this is my dear friend, Marjorie Trent, 
of whom I spoke this morning,” said Cuddy. 

“I’m awfully glad to meet you. Cuddy has told me 
so much about you,” said Marjorie Dawson Trent. 

“I’m very glad to meet you. Cuddy said you were 
such good friends,” replied Marion Fortescue. 

Across a yawning social chasm the two pretty girls 
shook hands. 

There was a pause for mutual mental reservation. 

“I’m so sorry Cuddy nearly ran over you on parade 
this morning,’’ said Marion Fortescue. 

“I should never have recognized him otherwise,” re- 
249 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


plied Marjorie Trent, “although I know him—very— 
well.” 

Miss Fortescue appraised Miss Trent. The latter 
made a refreshing picture in her white sport skirt, pink 
silk sweater, nicely tilted tarn and snappy hose and 
shoes. Marjorie was dark. Much darker than Cuddy 
and almost as tall. About the same age, too, and just 
about as clean cut. Marion had to look up to Mar¬ 
jorie, physically, but she looked up to her in no other 
way. The only person Marion looked up to as really 
above her was the person called Cuddy. 

“How many minutes before you go on, Marion?” 
asked Cuddy. 

Marion cocked an ear toward the untiring band. 

“Eight minutes,” she answered. 

“We have no call boy in a circus dressing room,” 
Cuddy explained to Marjorie. “The band plays the 
same musical program for each performance. The per¬ 
formers in the dressing room can always tell by the 
band music when they will be due in the ring.” 

“And when the equestrian director’s whistle blows 
for our act we have to be there,” Marion volunteered. 

“No one is late around this show,” said Cuddy 
proudly. “Or if they are, I slap a fine on them.” 

Performers, human and otherwise, came and went. 
A clown with his trained pigs, fresh from their artistic 
triumphs in the arena of the main tent, grunted through 
the passageway. 

“Pretty hot under the big top to-day, Jules/’ said 
Marion. 


250 




MARJORIE MEETS MARION 


“You’ll think so before you’re on the wire three 
minutes,” the clown answered, the sweat rolling down 
his whitened cheeks. 

The balancing Japs trooped by, the women per¬ 
formers entering their side of the dressing room, the 
men theirs. 

“Would you like to see how we circus women man¬ 
age it?” suggested Marion. 

“Indeed I would,” Marjorie answered. 

“I’ll be back in just a minute,” said Cuddy. “Have 
to speak to Gan well about that dance he’s playing for 
your wire act.” 

Marion raised the canvas flap of the tent marked 
“Ladies’ Dressing Room,” and held it back that Mar¬ 
jorie might enter. 

“We don’t have much room to spare,” explained 
Marion, as Marjorie found herself inside a canvas- 
walled space, perhaps sixty by thirty feet, where women 
in various stages of deshabille stood before square, 
opened trunks that lined the walls and ran in a double 
aisle down the middle of the tent. 

It was a colorful picture that Marjorie’s eyes met, 
red silken tights, billowy skirts of the wire walkers, 
bare, white bodies, stockings of varied hues hung on 
the wire lines ready for instant service. Around the 
wall, street costumes were festooned over wire lines. 
Marjorie noted one particularly modish brown crepe de 
chine hanging beside Marion’s space. 

“Most of our street clothes are kept in the cars,” 
Marion said, as if reading Marjorie’s thoughts. “But 

251 




CUBBY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


of course we have to have something to go about in 
when we leave the lot.” 

Marjorie felt her usual self-assurance deserting her 
as she gazed around the tent, and met the eyes of the 
women who paused in their dressing as she entered. 
It was not that she felt them hostile, or even unfriendly, 
these women of the circus, but somehow she felt like 
a shipwrecked mariner on an island where none spoke 
her language. 

A girl of nineteen or twenty squatted on an upturned 
pail and darned a rent in a pair of yellow tights. Mar¬ 
jorie recognized her as one of the trapeze performers. 
Two others near by chattered in French as they fluffed 
their bobbed hair and powdered shiny noses. Marion 
was placing shoe trees in her white-kid riding boots. 
Over near the entrance Jules Turner’s wife was nurs¬ 
ing a fat-cheeked baby. 

“We have to be quite good natured,” laughed 
Marion. 4 ‘Each of us has a space six feet square for 
our trunk and dressing stand. You see my mirror 
is in the top of my trunk. I hang my ring costumes 
on this wire stand just in front of the trunk until I 
want them. My make-up box is in that tray. We 
have to figure things pretty carefully.” 

“Rather—clubby/’ suggested Marjorie. She watched 
the rows of closely packed women in various degrees 
of undress. One muscular performer, stripped to her 
waist, wiped the make-up from her face, plunged her 
arms into a bucket of water and showered her head 
252 




MARJORIE MEETS MARION 


and shoulders. Her breast was heaving. She strug¬ 
gled for breath. 

“She’s just come off the Roman rings,” said Mar¬ 
ion. “She works close to the top of the tent. Some¬ 
times it’s one hundred and ten degrees up there. I’ll 
have a taste of it to-day in the flying act at the close 
of the show.” 

“Don’t you ever quarrel in here?” Marjorie was 
noting the cheerfulness of the dressing room’s occu¬ 
pants. The feminine circus performers—casually 
changing costume, sitting at ease waiting for their 
next turn in the ring or mending damaged wardrobe— 
seemed to be in excellent humor with each other. 

“We have to get along together/’ said Marion 
simply. “We eat at the same table three times a day, 
sleep two in a berth, two berths high, in the same 
Pullman, each night, share this same dressing room 
each day, work in the same ring and ride the same 
parade, always together. That’s part of the business. 
Only when the show runs into rain and everything is 
soaking wet for three days at a stretch, well—it’s 
rather hard on the disposition.” 

“Pardon such a bromidic question, Miss Fortescue,” 
said Marjorie, “but do you really like this life? It 
must be awfully—rough.” 

“Do you like yours ?” was Marion’s response. Then 
she hastened to add, “I don’t mean to be rude. I’ve 
showed in many college towns in the spring and fall 
and I’ve seen the students going to their studies or 
playing on the college grounds, and I suppose you do 
253 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


all enjoy it, don’t you? Cuddy used to.” There was 
a wistful note in her voice. 

“Of course. We love it,” Marjorie asserted. “And 
Cuddy—did.” 

“I love the circus business,’* promptly replied the 
Queen of the Arena. “I was brought up in it. Per¬ 
haps that’s why I love it. And it’s splendid training, 
don’t you think, for the time when I shall have my own 
home?” 

Marjorie started. “I beg your pardon! What did 
you say?” she asked. 

There was an unusual commotion in the pad room. 
Two men dressed for the ring staggered through the 
canvas door carrying a woman in tights. The woman 
moaned. Tears ran down her face. One of the men 
kissed her as they laid her on the ground between two 
rows of trunks. Several of the women performers 
rushed to her. Marion reached her first. She felt of 
the woman’s arms and legs, of her back, her hands and 
feet. The injured woman continued to moan and 
weep. The two circus men withdrew. Marjorie re¬ 
mained near the canvas door. In a moment Marion 
rejoined her. 

“That’s Sally Fisher,’* Marion explained. “She 
missed her catch on a trapeze act. Took a twenty-foot 
fall. I told her the other day she was getting careless.” 

“Is she badly hurt?” 

“Can’t tell yet. We have a doctor on the show. 
He’ll be here soon. I think no bones are broken. She 
254 




MARJORIE MEETS MARION 


fell easy, limp, you know. She’s an old performer. 
But she’ll not work for a week or so.” 

“Do you mean to say she will perform again within 
two weeks!” 

“Oh, yes. I’ve fallen twenty-five feet and worked 
two weeks after. You must fall loose and try to hit 
the ground on your shoulders or back. Just let your¬ 
self go. If you fall with your muscles tense you’re 
bound to break something. And if you fall forward 
and light on your head, either in a net or on the ground, 
it’s apt to snap your head back and break your neck.” 

The circus band changed from a gallop into a waltz 
movement. 

“Excuse me. That’s the music for my wire act. 
Will you wait just outside in the pad room for Cuddy? 
He’ll take you back to the reserved seats. Am very 
glad to have met you.” Marion clattered out in her 
wooden-soled mud pumps. 

As Marjorie stepped into the canvas-walled lane 
between the men’s and women’s dressing rooms, Mar¬ 
ion passed Cuddy at the red-curtained entrance to the 
main tent. Cuddy patted Marion’s shoulder in passing. 

“Sorry I am so late,” said Cuddy as he approached 
Marjorie. “Had a little accident in Number One 
ring.” 

“Wasn’t it distressing?” said Marjorie. “What a 
frightful life!” 

“Pretty bad fall she had,” admitted Cuddy. “A 
woman’s such a highly nervous organism. A fall’s 
apt to affect her work. Takes the heart out of her. 
255 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


Marion is one of the few women performers who can 
take a fall without losing her nerve. But then, she’s 
young. Only twenty.” 

Marjorie fancied that Cuddy said it with the pride 
of possession. She allowed herself to be led back to 
the reserved seats. 

Miss Marion Fortescue, schooled in circus tent and 
sawdust, earned that afternoon her title of Queen of 
the Arena. Calkins, one-time owner of Cuddy’s cir¬ 
cus, had crowned her queen in jest. Marion took the 
title that afternoon in earnest. She took it in the 
exercise of the art she best knew—the art of the cir¬ 
cus ring. She practiced that art with all the power 
within her because she meant to hold Cuddy against 
all comers. She recognized Marjorie Dawson Trent 
as her most dangerous rival. Marjorie had all the 
charm of one to the manner born. She was one of 
Cuddy’s class—the class Marion had renounced. And 
Marjorie was undoubtedly fond of Cuddy. Marion 
feared that Cuddy was fond of Marjorie. Hence 
Marion made the fight of her life. 

It would have been a poor clod who could not have 
thrilled to Marion’s performance that afternoon. She 
danced like a sprite on the tiny tight wire. She made 
“Prince/’ her high-school horse, finish his fancy steps 
by walking on his hind legs half way around the arena. 
She floated to the top of the tent in her butterfly cos¬ 
tume and pirouetted there like a Pavlowa of the air. 
Only once or twice in a lifetime does a circus per- 
256 




MARJORIE MEETS MARION 


former receive the homage given her that afternoon. 
The great audience with upturned faces burst into 
salvos of applause at every pause in her performance. 
And throughout her dangerous feats Marion Fortescue 
kept her eye on Marjorie Dawson Trent, and upon 
Cuddy at Marjorie’s side. What is threat to life and 
limb when an affair of the heart is involved? 

Marjorie sat as one entranced until the elephant 
act was on. Then she shuddered. 

“Cuddy, how can you permit a girl like that to risk 
her life with those horrid brutes?” she demanded. 
“You who were so tender.” 

“You don’t know Marion,” he answered. Marion 
ordered and whipped the monster pachyderms about as 
if they were trained dogs. She jabbed an elephant 
hook into the trunk of the biggest of them. He 
trumpeted in pain. She stretched her lithe figure upon 
the ground. The biggest elephant slowly sank upon 
the ground directly over her. She disappeared under 
the monster’s bulk. The two other elephants sat up, 
back to back, upon the crouching “bull.” There was 
a word of command in a girlish voice. The elephants 
got up on all fours. Marion jumped to her feet, ran 
to the ring bank and “took her bow.’’ The crowd gave 
her an ovation. Marjorie shuddered again. Marion 
hooked the biggest elephant once more. One more he 
trumpeted, then stood on his hind legs, with Marion 
poised beneath his forelegs and his waving trunk. 

“That one she works with the most, the biggest one, 
257 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


is what is known as an "outlaw bull/ "Robber’ we call 
him/’ Cuddy was enlightening Marjorie with the lore 
of the circus. "‘You notice he has the piggiest eyes 
of all of them. He nearly killed her last spring. That’s 
why she hooks him so often. She’s not afraid of him 
and lets him know it.” 

“And you still insist you love this life?” There 
was a suggestion of despair in Marjorie’s voice. 

“I love some things about it,” said Cuddy. Marion 
mounted the head of the big bull, Robber, and bal¬ 
anced there as the elephant herd made its exit. Mar¬ 
jorie watched Cuddy’s face with increasing wonder. 
She thought Cuddy had forgotten she was there. But 
in a moment he added: 

"‘You’ll understand me better when you see the fly¬ 
ing return act. That will be on in a few minutes— 
and then we can go.” 

Marjorie put her hand on Cuddy’s. 

“Forgive me if I fail to share your enthusiasm for 
the life you say fate selected for you. You must ad¬ 
mit, Cuddy, that it’s a far cry from the life we lived 
in college days. I thought I might be reconciled to 
the reality of you as a circus man but I find it— 
very difficult. And I am so fond of you.” 

Cuddy turned to her. 

“Marjorie/’ he said, “our college romance was a 
beautiful thing. I was terribly sorry it had to come 
to an end.” 

“Did it—have to?” she answered. 

258 




MARJORIE MEETS MARION 


Cuddy gently disengaged his hand. It was not 
seemly that the sole owner and proprietor of Calkins' 
Classical Circus should be holding hands in the pres¬ 
ence of his circus company and an audience of three 
thousand modernized Romans, even though the latter 
might be intent upon the circus performance. Mar¬ 
jorie and Cuddy sighed. Theirs had been a beautiful 
romance. 

Another romance suddenly loomed before them. It 
was the romance that enwrapped Marion Fortescue. 

During the afternoon’s performance Marion had ap¬ 
peared in riding costumes, as a butterfly fluttering about 
the dome of the tent, as a ballet dancer flitting along an 
invisible wire, as a frocked and booted commander of 
clumsy but obedient elephants. Now her slender figure 
was before them, barenecked, barearmed, in pink 
bodice and pink tights. Marjorie gasped. Cuddy 
heard Marjorie's gasp and reddened. With her fellow 
trapezists Marion unconcernedly kissed her hands to 
the crowded seats. 

“It is part of the business,” said Cuddy lamely. 

Marjorie offered no reply. 

Marion climbed nimbly up the swaying rope ladder 
past the net to a slender perch which hung from a 
great iron frame work. The band slipped into a lilting 
waltz. Marion grasped her trapeze bar, sailed bird¬ 
like toward the center of the tent, somersaulted grace¬ 
fully through space and seized the extended hands of 
the “catcher” who hung by his knees from the opposite 
259 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


“cradle.” It was a beautiful thing beautifully done. 
Marion kissed her hands to the applauding crowd be¬ 
fore she turned on a narrow bit of board to seize her 
swaying trapeze bar and soar back to the safety of 
her original perch. That was but the beginning of the 
feature number of the circus performance, the return 
act of the Five Flying Fortescues. 

“I named the team after Marion,” said Cuddy. 
“Few performers work under their own names, and 
Marion is the star of the act.” 

Marjorie still made no reply. 

Marion went through her aerial routine coolly and 
calmly, although the heat near the top of the tent was 
stifling and the strain was apparent in the faces of the 
audience and other performers. Always starting from 
her high perch and accomplishing her sensational feats 
in mid-air, she threw a complete forward somersault 
from her flying trapeze bar, was caught by a man hang¬ 
ing in the other end of the rigging, was suspended by 
his hands for a moment, then thrown back toward 
the returning trapeze bar, which she caught after com¬ 
pleting a pirouette and a half. Far toward the can¬ 
vas roof she vaulted clear over the trapeze bar, caught 
the hands of her partner, did a twisting shoot through 
them and again caught her own trapeze bar on its 
return toward her starting point. Then in the fifty feet 
between her trapeze and her catcher she did a straight 
somersault, a double cutaway and somersault back, a 
twisting cutaway and back somersault, and a somer¬ 
sault in which she passed another flyer as the latter 
260 




MARJORIE MEETS MARION 


was somersaulting in the opposite direction. Finally, 
with band stilled and audience hushed, she completed a 
“two-and-a-half somersault’' to her catcher, climbed 
to the very top of the rigging, threw herself into the 
air, turned over three times, struck the net fairly on 
her shoulders, bounded lightly to the ground—and cap¬ 
tured the greatest honors of the day. 

Only once did Marjorie take her eyes from Marion. 
That was when Marion did her triple somersault from 
rigging to net. Then Marjorie averted her gaze. She 
remembered what Marion had said in the dressing room 
about one way of acquiring a broken neck. When the 
Five Flying Fortescues departed via the dressing room 
curtains, Cuddy, who had in high enthusiasm inter¬ 
preted the “flying act,” as he called it, so that Marjorie 
might miss nothing of its fine technic, fired his leading 
question at Marjorie. 

“What do you think of her?” 

“Marion?” 

“Yes. Who else?” 

“Rather a daring girl.” 

“You mean her circus tights?” 

“Partly.” 

“She can’t help that. It’s part of the business, same 
as a premiere danseuse. She’s been doing just that 
thing for ten years.” 

“Does that make her more attractive to you?” 

“That’s not in the least like you.” Cuddy was hurt. 
“Guess we better go now and get out before the crowd 
starts. Show closes after this riding act.” 

261 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


Silently Marjorie accompanied Cuddy through the 
main tent and the menagerie. Cuddy tossed an order 
or two to Rony Gavin. Then the man and the maid of 
his college days stepped into a taxi and rode back into 
the world neither one had quite forgotten. 




CHAPTER XX 
THE GREAT DECISION 


“ UDDY,” said Marjorie as they walked along 

1 j a path overlooking Lake Michigan, “you 
asked me to go to your circus so that you 
might be understood by me. Pve gone, but I don’t 
understand you—now. I thoroughly understood you 
in college. Since we parted last spring you have 
changed beyond my understanding. It breaks my 
heart.” 

“You do not see in me any development of char¬ 
acter, any increase in moral and physical strength?” 

“You are bigger and browner. Yes. But you seem 
so far away.” 

“My luncheon story of how I had to take charge 
of this circus to save the remnant of the family for¬ 
tune and of the long battle I fought to run the grifters 
and other tough elements away and to make it a clean, 
'Sunday School show/ all that did not impress you?” 

“Not particularly. Your course was rather nega¬ 
tive. And not wholly respectable. You would have 
been a greater credit to—me—and your other friends 
if you had gone into some legitimate business.” 

“The circus business is just as legitimate as any 


CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


other, if it is conducted along legitimate lines. I have 
a ‘Sunday School show’ now and I’m going to keep 
it as a ‘Sunday School show.’ Other showmen have 
done it, why not I? You could learn to like it, Mar¬ 
jorie !” 

“It is such a wretched sort of gypsy life for a boy 
like you.*' 

“That’s what I thought about it, at first,” admitted 
Cuddy. “But during the months of fighting with my¬ 
self and almost everything around me, through the 
wreckage of ‘blow-downs/ the muck of wet lots, bad 
weather, long hours, short sleep, discomfort and dis¬ 
aster something happened to me that could not have 
happened in the soft old days. I’m less than six 
months older than when we danced together in the 
college ‘gym’—according to the calendar—but I’m six 
years older in experience. And out of my experience 
has come a great love for this gypsy life, as you call 
it.” 

Marjorie listened patiently. Cuddy hesitated, then 
resumed: 

“I suppose I’m influenced by the same nomadic in¬ 
stinct that caused the first Aryan migration; that 
brought our Puritan forefathers across the Atlantic; 
that carried our Scotch-Irish ancestors across the Ap¬ 
palachian Mountains. Unless you have lived such a life 
as I have lived since last spring, you cannot know the 
fascination of the daily arrival in a new town, the joy 
of setting up, of tearing down, or moving on to an¬ 
other town each night. I doubt if I ever lead any 
264 




THE GREAT DECISION 


other life. But, Marjorie—I do not want to lead it 
alone.” 

Marjorie leaned toward him. They had stopped on 
a sandy ridge overlooking the lake. The western sun 
shone brilliantly upon the brilliant beauty of Marjorie 
Dawson Trent. “And you have quite forgotten all 
that went before, between you and me?” she asked. 

“The best cuddler on Columbus campus.” That had 
been Cuddy’s title in college. He drew in his breath 
sharply. He clenched his hands. He had but to say 
one word—the right word—take Marjorie in his arms 
—and back into fantasy would fade the world of the 
show tents and sawdust. Cuddy was human. He tried 
hard to say the one word. What he did say was: 

“You ask me to chuck the show business?” 

“If you want—me.” She leaned closer toward him, 
tears in her eyes. 

He hesitated. He extended his arms, pleadingly. 

“I—can’t—do—it—Marjorie. I must stick by my 
show.” 

She turned on him, wrathfully, as becomes a woman 
scorned. 

“It isn’t the circus business you love, it’s the circus 
girl.” 

Cuddy was mute. He was terribly fond of Marjorie. 

“You’ll tire of both, when it is too late. I know 
you, Cuddy. I know you better than any other per¬ 
son in the world knows you. And I—Cuddy, this is 
the day of your great decision. You’ve fallen far from 
your rightful estate but you can come back to where 
265 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


you were, if you will. Your blood inheritance will 
bring you back to all of us some day.” 

“And until I do come back, as you put it, there can 
be nothing more between us?” 

“Nothing, Cuddy, and you don’t know how it hurts 
me to say that.” 

“That’s putting it right up to me. That’s hitting 
me hard.” 

“Yes, Cuddy. But it is hitting me much harder.” 

“I think a lot of you, Marjorie. A lot more than 
you realize.” 

“There’s just one way in which you can prove it.” 

“I’m—g o i n g—to—have—to—stick—with—my— 
show,” he slowly said. He felt as if he were reciting 
from his Domesday book. 

Without another word they turned, each in his own 
direction; she toward her summer home and her ten¬ 
nis, golf, bridge and yachts; he toward his circus lot 
and its people who live apart. 

Alone on the sand dunes, a girl cried “Oh, Cuddy! 
Cuddy!” 

A boy dragged his feet as he went. Life seemed 
black night to him. 

“Marjorie may have been right,” he mused. “Blood 
will tell. My ancestry will assert itself some day, 
maybe too late. We’ve had some wonderful times 
together, Marjorie and I. Her father used to hint 
that I would make good in the brokerage business. I 
don’t know. Wonder how his golf game is. Mine 
must be hopelessly off. And as for tennis—and danc- 
266 




THE GREAT DECISION 


ing, ’fraid I’ve quite forgotten how. They must have 
some peachy dancing parties up there in the summer 
colony. And Marjorie and I could dance!” 

He trudged toward the circus lot, head down, eyes 
unseeing. 

‘‘If I should chuck this show business and go back to 
orthodox life—well—I’m only twenty-one. Yes, Mar¬ 
jorie may be right. I wasn’t bom into the show busi¬ 
ness like most of the people on the show were. That 
makes a lot of difference. The people like me on the 
show, but they’ve never admitted that I was one of 
them. Like seeks like. Wonder if the fellows will 
open the new fraternity house this fall? And will 
Slats Murphy be waiting for Marjorie?” 

Cuddy in his ruminating walk passed the railroad 
cars of Calkins’ Classical Circus, Mammoth Menag¬ 
erie, Museum of Monstrosities and Free Horse Fair. 
Trainmaster Galva Green was directing his razorbacks 
as they set up the runs preparatory to the evening’s 
loading. 

“Some class to those new seventy-foot steel flats, 
Guv’ner,” was Green’s greeting to his circus boss. 

“They’ll load more than the old sixty-foot wooden 
ones,” commented Cuddy. “How do your men like 
them?” 

“The old troupers are agin ’em,” Green replied. 
“Don’t like ’em because they ain’t trussed. Think if 
they’re overloaded they’ll buckle—and then, good 
night.” 

“They’ll stand up all right,” said Cuddy. He con- 
267 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


tinued his march toward his circus, his head a little 
higher. 

“Guess it’s up to me to get out of this circus busi¬ 
ness and back where I belong, in a bank or a bond 
house or something.” Cuddy’s mind was reacting to 
Marjorie’s suggestions. He stepped aside as the cook¬ 
house wagon, first wagon off the lot, passed him. 

“Must speak to the steward about the way he’s pack¬ 
ing that wagon,” he said to himself. “That back door 
shouldn’t be open. No wonder we’re missing canned 
goods at each stand. That’s the only fault to find with 
him. Otherwise he’s a regular steward. Good as the 
one at our college club. And he was good!” 

The stable wagon rumbled along behind the cook¬ 
house equipment. 

“Getting off the lot in good time, and not a long 
haul from lot to train,” thought Cuddy. “Wonder 
why Bill Rhodes doesn’t have that pole team reshod. 
Must be some reason. Bill knows his business. There 
goes the side-show band, making the evening opening.” 

Cuddy quickened his pace. He was always on the 
lot for the openings. The calliope, its evensong now 
sung and its voice mute until the morrow, rolled off 
the lot as Cuddy hurried on. 

“Looks like good business to-night. Nice crowd 
waiting for the ticket wagon to open.” Cuddy’s 
searching eyes mechanically checked off each pole, 
stake, rope, wagon, and showman in sight. 

“McGinnis, it’s time to lower those flags from the 
center poles,” he snapped at his boss canvasman. 

268 




THE GREAT DECISION 


“You’ll be tearing down the menagerie top in a few 
minutes.” Having missed his supper, Cuddy paused 
at the butcher’s outside stand and indulged in a smok¬ 
ing “Coney Island red hot” sandwich. “You’re put¬ 
ting in the real meat and leaving out the chemical col¬ 
oring stuff since I gave you the office, eh, son?” 

“All the time, Guv’ner,” the butcher boy replied. 

Everything was running smoothly with the Calkins 
show. 

Everything was not running so smoothly in Cuddy’s 
mind. 

He drifted back of the big top, found a seat on the 
pole of the canvas wagon and lighted a cigarette. 
Evening was a good time to think. 

“Marjorie was certainly right,” he admitted. “Might 
as well be honest with myself. I don’t belong here. 
They’re not my people. I’ve made good. Got my 
bill of sale back and recorded, so I really own the 
show. Got the show on its feet. That’s more than 
the average successful business man could have done. 
Now it’s up to me to sell out while the selling is good. 
Have no trouble doing that and showing a profit. 
Papers are saying a lot—thanks to Bings Balter’s press 
work—about the wonderful success of the Calkins show. 
Good time to sell. Then back to the old life, to golf, 
tennis, dances and all the rest. Gee, but I’m homesick 
for the college crowd!” 

Jules Turner, dean of clown alley, came panting into 
Cuddy’s view. “Been looking all over the lot for you, 
269 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


Guv’ner,” the old clown gasped. “Manson gave me 
this note for you half an hour ago.” 

Cuddy tore open the note. 

“I told you Fd settle with you for that Robber busi¬ 
ness [it said]. You’re no trouper and no man. You’re 
a simp and you’ll always be a simp. Marion and I have 
blowed the show. I broke her into the business and she 
belongs to me. When you get this we’ll be on our way 
to gettin’ married like we always expected to be.” 

Cuddy catapulted from the canvas wagon. He shook 
Turner until the old man’s bones rattled. 

“Which way did they go?” he demanded. 

“Going west on the six forty-five to-night,” chat¬ 
tered the clown. 

Cuddy streaked across the circus lot and dashed into 
a taxi. 

“Beat it for the railroad station,” he ordered. 

Taxi and train reached the station at the same time. 

Manson had an advantage of thirty pounds. Cuddy 
the advantage of youth. Weight swung widely. Youth 
bored in. Passengers and crew left the train to cheer 
the combatants. When the knock-out came through 
a lucky uppercut, Cuddy called two brakemen. 

“Put him in the day coach,” he commanded, as the 
brakemen lifted Manson’s unconscious form, “he’s got 
a ticket for somewhere.” 

Turning to Marion, the only silent spectator, Cuddy 
quietly said: “Get in the taxi, please. We’re going 
270 




THE GREAT DECISION 


back to the lot.’’ They exchanged no words on the 
return journey. They parted in the pad room. 

“I’ll be looking for you when I’m straightened out,” 
he said. The girl made no reply. 

A half hour later Cuddy raised the big top side wall 
and entered the main circus-tent. It was almost dark 
in there. Chandelier Whitey was preparing to hoist 
the gasoline lights to their proper places on the center 
poles. It would soon be time to open the front doors. 

Marion Fortescue was sitting at the entrance to the 
reserved-seat section. She always sat there, Cuddy re¬ 
called, for an hour or so before the evening perform¬ 
ance, always reading if it were light enough, or work¬ 
ing on some ubiquitous embroidery. Marion believed 
in a quiet hour. It happened that a quiet hour was 
just what Cuddy was looking for, above all things a 
quiet hour with Marion Fortescue. 

He found a seat beside her. He took her hands in 
his. Her needle ceased to shuttle and her fingers were 
at rest. It was the first time Cuddy had practiced the 
gentle art of hand-holding upon any member of his 
circus company. 

“Marion,” said Cuddy, “we’ve been through a lot 
of trouble together, you and I. If you hadn’t stuck 
by me neither the show nor I could be classed as a 
going concern. I haven’t much to offer you, except this 
circus. I can’t boast of any family like yours because 
none of my people was ever in the show business. But 
I’m heels over head in love with you, dear. I didn’t 
realize it until a little while ago. Now I know I’ve 
271 




CUDDY OF THE WHITE TOPS 


been wild about you for a long time. And I’m kind of 
jumbly in my mind but I—if you will be willing to 
put up with my shortcomings, lack of family and all 
that—and if the show comes into winter quarters this 
fall ahead of the game, then—if you will have me— 
will you marry me ?” 

Miss Marion Fortescue, wire walker, animal trainer, 
somersault flier and high-school rider, leaned her golden 
head upon Clarence Cuddington Cotter’s aristocratic 
shoulder and sighed in gorgeous content. 

“Why wait until the end of the season?” she whis¬ 
pered. 

Chandelier Whitey, veteran of many a blow-down 
and circus clem, a man of iron nerve and corded muscle, 
all but dropped a burning gasoline cluster from the 
top of the circus tent. It was Cuddy’s warwhoop that 
did it. Cuddy was trying to express his accumulated 
sentiments. Cuddy’s future held no terrors for him 
now. All his problems had been solved. Hence¬ 
forth he would have nothing to do in life but make 
love to Marion Fortescue Cotter—and run a circus. 

He seized his bride-to-be around her slender waist. 
He hugged her with bearlike strength before Chande¬ 
lier Whitey could flood the tent with light. 

“Sweetheart,” he whispered in her shell-like ear. 
“Sweetheart! We’ll be married in Charlevoix to-mor¬ 
row! I always knew that Charlevoix would be a 
good town!” 

“The towns will all be good to us,” murmured Miss 
272 




THE GREAT DECISION 


Marion Fortescue, “and when the season closes at our 
journey’s end, dear, will we have that honeymoon cot¬ 
tage at Pass Christian ?” 

“With moonlight, mocking birds and magnolias,’’ 
declared Clarence Cuddington Cotter. 

< l > 


THE END 

















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